


The Portrait

by eehms



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Homophobic Language, M/M, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Rough Sex, Thievery, general rudeness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26562667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eehms/pseuds/eehms
Summary: Tommy overhears Alfie talking about him to someone at a party, saying that Tommy’s not his type. Tommy decides to find out how true that is. (The one in which they burgle nobility, and attend more orgies together than one might expect.)
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons, Tommy Shelby/Lizzie Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 110





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the shit show, babey!! i've been writing this since may, and this bloated, convoluted mess is finally done!
> 
> i'll try to be brief. slightly AU, diverging from canon in S4E6. alfie does not retire, he does not get shot by tommy, and he does not have cancer! why? because i said so! bitch has eczema, and it's very, very tragic. i also just think it's very sexie of alfie to be a mean gangster, and so i couldn't handle packing him off to margate quite yet. 
> 
> also fiddled a bit with tommy and lizzie's relationship, because lizzie deserves better! maybe a bit AU of tommy, but he's still an insufferable little criminal, with perhaps a bit less emotional baggage. (picture: S1/2 tommy in S5 tommy's body). we control the canon here and we're allowed to do whatever we want
> 
> oh, and i don't know all that much about british royalty? none of these additional characters (and one location) are based on real human beings, completely made up. i know there are people who are Intense about things like this, so just wanted to state. they are fake and mistakes are my own!

The things that Tommy Shelby knew definitively about Alfie Solomons were few. There were the easy things, like the fact that the man seemed halfway to lunacy, or the fact that he ran a distillery that he insisted on calling a bakery (potentially due to said lunacy). He knew that he was Jewish, of course, could never miss that, and appeared to be quite faithful, though Tommy was occasionally unsure how seriously he actually took his faith. He knows that he was a Captain in the army, a position he could have only achieved through the strength of his character and by bravery, rather than by virtue of surname. He knew that he could be very aggressive when the mood took him, which could happen quite often and was generally unexpected and occasionally enthralling. After the deal with the Russians, Tommy had even come to learn a bit more about his family, a rare glimpse into a concealed personal life, clawed out of him through his rage. He knew he preferred dogs to any other animal, and that he hated Tommy’s brothers, regardless of how pleasant John or Arthur would be to him. That Alfie preferred dealing with him, and would throw a hissy fit if he tried to send someone else in his stead. He also knew that Alfie would thrash him if he ever verbally called it a hissy fit, not that he’d ever be suicidal enough to do so. 

And then there were the things that Tommy suspected about the man, but didn’t have any absolute proof of. Tommy suspected that he didn’t drink much because he always needed to be in control. He also suspected that if he did drink, he’d be the violent sort of drunk, the kind to throw fists in a dark pub because he’d thought someone had looked at him nasty. He suspected that Alfie had had _some_ sort of formal education, beyond what Tommy had, at least. And finally, and most pressingly, in his opinion, Tommy suspected that Alfie Solomons was some sort of queer.

He wasn’t exactly shy about it, the way he’d watch Tommy, or any other pretty man who he came across. The bakery was remarkably lacking in any appealing scenery, so the _other_ part wasn’t something that happened often. However, Tommy had noticed him staring at a particularly handsome waiter they’d had when one of their meetings had turned into a lunch. Tommy hadn’t said a word, like he hadn’t said anything any of the other times that Alfie’d been talking— usually about some rubbish that wasn’t even close to relevant to the business they’d been discussing— and his eyes would be locked the whole while on Tommy’s lips. He seemed to have quite the oral fixation, Alfie did, constantly offering Tommy booze and cigarettes, in a gesture that he’d say was just him being friendly, but was an obvious ploy to get Tommy’s lips working over something. 

And Tommy didn’t mind, not at all, liked the attention of it, liked the thrill of having a dangerous man desire him. It put him on edge, the good kind, mind racing ten steps ahead, trying to figure out if he could coax an extra percentage or two out of the man if he wet his lips like this, tilted his jaw to expose his throat like that. And Tommy suspected that Alfie fucking loved it, loved the subtle flirtation between the two of them during every business meeting they sat through. He wasn’t going to _actually_ fuck him for the Shelby Company (though maybe just for the fun of it), but Tommy was shameless in the pursuit of a better deal, figured it’d be alright, as long as they could just stick to the script, didn’t push it too far. Both of them seemed alright with the routine, so who would it harm, really?

So it strikes him as a bit strange when, in the process of skulking around corners trying to avoid making conversation, he overhears Solomons talking about him. They’re at a party in London, some inane upper class social event that Tommy Shelby, O.B.E had been invited to and couldn’t figure out a good enough reason to not attend, and had been rather surprised to run into Solomons earlier in the evening. He had initially no idea why Alfie had been in attendance— he himself had been invited by some man in the House that he would have never thought would run in the same circles as notorious Jewish gangster, Alfie Solomons. However, as the night had worn on, it became more and more obvious what these men had in common with each other. He had almost smiled as he was presented, unprompted, with his third glass of whiskey, sipping it wryly as the men around him watched him drink it. For every woman in the room, there were three times as many men. He could count the number of ladies he saw on one hand. He supposed he should be flattered that Mr. Cooper, an O.B.E himself, had invited him, as well as a bit wary to be seen here. 

He’d been tucked away at the corner of the room, talking to one of the few women (much to the chagrin of a few interested parties) when Alfie had approached him, slapping a hand on his shoulder amicably. They’d greeted each other when Tommy had first arrived, of course, would have equally wounded the other’s delicate pride if they hadn’t, but it had been cursory at best. Alfie had been deep in conversation with some slip of a thing, and Tommy hadn’t wanted to ruin his chances. 

“Thomas Shelby,” Alfie announces, not giving the woman even a hint at a greeting. “Got to say mate, never in a million years would I expect to run into you here.”

Tommy turns to look at the bearded man, a half-smile growing slowly on his face, despite himself. The woman, sucking down her cigarette, exhales her smoke in a cloud, and when it disperses, she’s gone. She can’t possibly be having good luck here tonight. Tommy, only a bit disappointed to see her leave, shrugs out from under Alfie’s warm hand, which is gripping at his neck. “Seems I was misled on what kind of a party this would be.” He doesn’t say it cruelly, doesn’t say it to mock Alfie, or any of the men in this room. He was in no position to judge, after all. 

Alfie, always quicker to do so, grins at him. “I’m sure you were. Tell me, which of these fucking poofs lured you here? Was it with the promise of alcohol and debauchery? Because you’ve found the booze, right, and I’m sure you could still find the debauchery, if you looked hard enough.”

Tommy leans casually against the wall behind him, clutching his glass tumbler in his hand. He swirls the brown liquid around a bit, glass almost empty. He’s due for a refill, and he’s sure that someone would be around to provide one for him momentarily. It’d be his fifth whiskey, and he’d make sure to go slower with the next one. He can already see the sharks prowling in the water, watching out of the corners of their eyes as his cheeks begin to flush from indulgence. He’s not worried about it, these men seem polite enough, if a bit overzealous. And even if they weren’t, he’s got a gun against his ribs and a knife at his ankle. Even the elite men of upper class London knew better than to dangle their fingers too close to where Tommy Shelby might snap at them. 

“One of my esteemed brethren in the House, Cooper. Thought I was going to be attending a charity event.”

“Ah,” Alfie rumbles, wisely. He’s leaning now as well, arm propped against the wall, almost completely boxing Tommy into the corner. Tommy glances over the man’s shoulder, tries to see if anyone’s noticed his posturing. They have, of course, curious eyes analyzing the distance between their bodies. “Bet there’s one or two more men getting their cocks sucked in dark corners than you’d normally see at a charity event.” Alfie’s eyes are sparkling, looking flushed and happy himself. Tommy wonders if he’d been one of those men getting their cock sucked, wonders where that boy he’d been speaking with had gone off to. “And you do realize, treacle, the devious intentions of this Cooper fellow when he invited you here?”

“I certainly have my suspicions.” Tommy raises the glass to his lips, waits for the inevitable journey of Alfie’s eyes down to watch. It was almost too easy. And he’s in good spirits as he downs the rest of his whiskey, so he decides to push a bit further. He furrows his brows together, adopting an innocently bewildered expression, eyes wide. “Why? Do you think he wants to fuck me, Alfie?”

Alfie, not one to blush, just shakes his head a bit, still smiling. His eyes flicker back and forth between Tommy’s eyes and his lips, quickly enough to be disconcerting, if Tommy weren’t already used to the man’s strange quirks and mannerisms. “Of course you have your suspicions. Pretty boys like you can always tell, eh?”

Tommy scoffs. “Boy. Charming as ever, aren’t you?” There’s a fireplace beside Alfie’s shoulder, and Tommy reaches under his arm to place the empty glass on the mantel. It brings him very close to the man as he leans to reach, and he can feel Alfie’s breath on the left side of his face, but he’s careful not to touch him. Alfie continues shaking his head, seeing right through his actions. When Tommy’s stood back where he’d been, he looks him straight in the eye. “But yes. It’s generally easy to tell. Especially with men.”

“You get a lot of attention from men, then?” Alfie tilts his head, curiously. “Have to be honest, you seem the type to get proper offended by that sort of thing, yeah? Thought you’d cut out the eyes of any man who even tries to get near.”

They’re interrupted then by a brave young lad wearing a fancy suit, who has procured another refill after spying the empty glass. Tommy thinks he must be some minor lordling, raised far away from the dirt and grime, judging by how expensive his coat looks, his vacantly handsome face, and by how foolhardy he is to get in between Alfie Solomons and whoever he’s leaned over. That’s just how young people are these days, he thinks, as he graciously accepts the drink, smiling just enough to politely encourage him to leave. The war had a way of changing a boy to a man.

The lad leaves them be, still smiling hopefully at him as he turns, a bit of a pep to his step. Alfie rolls his eyes, but Tommy had been delighted by the interruption, the demonstration having spoken for him. There he was, 10 or more years older than some of the pretty young men there, and he was still considered a prize amongst them all. And regardless of his preferences (or, lack thereof), he still enjoyed the attention. 

Alfie, however, looks as if he’d been chastised, backing up a bit, as if he’s only now realized what they must have looked like. He straightens his posture, no longer leaning over Tommy. He rubs at his beard, scratching at the scar on his cheek. “Hm, right. Maybe I should leave you to your admirers? Here for business, after all, aren’t I?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow, unconcerned by the man’s sudden withdrawal. Such is the way of their funny little relationship. Like the ebb and flow of the tides; the rush of a wave, followed by one of them washing back into the sea. “You’re here on business?” He asks, skepticism oozing from his voice. 

“Yeah, I fucking am. Quite a busy man. Not all of us have the luxury of just standing about all day, looking ethereally beautiful.” Alfie still looks rather distant, but he’s smiling, so Tommy knows that nothing is really amiss. It had been strange, he could admit, flirting with Alfie in such a public setting. He’s used to spending time with the man by this point, but they almost always had a fair degree of privacy in their interactions. They met in Alfie’s office, or occasionally at Tommy’s house, and even rarer, at a restaurant. The restaurants were always thoroughly vetted by Alfie, private back rooms in London that are under his influence, and so Tommy had always been satisfied in the knowledge that even if someone had noticed their conversations getting a bit too intense, no one would dare say a word. Here, he was still certain that no one would be saying anything, provided the company they’re in, but it’s still odd feeling other people watching them, and _assuming_ things. 

“Right,” Tommy nods, as sarcastic as he can manage, and he takes another sip. He doubts that Alfie has actually anywhere to be, except perhaps finding someone more willing to stick his cock into than Tommy. But saying something would be rather impolite, and the both of them knew he was full of shit, anyway. “Should get to your business then, eh?”

“I should.” When Alfie doesn’t make any move to leave, Tommy’s smile grows wider. Or, as wide as he ever smiles, at least. He decides to end the conversation for him, and he’s the one to walk away, feeling Alfie’s eyes following him as he does so.

But that had been earlier, back when the night had only just fallen over the sky, and Tommy had had more energy. Now, it was getting quite late, and he was socially exhausted from fending off vapid conversation for hours, and the drink had progressed into a headache that was making him feel queasy. He’s unsure why he had even stayed at the party for as long as he had; if he had left soon after arriving, he might have even been able to make it back to Arrow House. Now, he’d have to go to a hotel, after all. He could go to Ada’s, but the thought of going back to his sister’s after a night spent at what had eventually become a men’s only orgy in a few of the side rooms was a bit much for him. 

He’d just escaped from the same young lordling who had refreshed his drink earlier in the night. He hadn’t wanted to fuck, he’d told him, just wanted to have Tommy sit for a painting. Apparently, he was an artist, specializing in oil paint, as all young lordlings do, had said something about wanting to capture the majesty of his eyes. It was a line, if Tommy had ever heard one. He’s sure that had he agreed to it— which he had considered, if only for an invitation to the lad’s manor to scope out his valuables— the boy would still end up trying to get his clothes off. He’d seemed quite fascinated with him, with an obvious desire to look into the dark underworld, something that Tommy might have thought about in the past, but not now that he was meant to be proper and official. So he declines the offer, tries to put the thoughts of what jewels and treasures he might have hidden away somewhere, and tells the lad he needs a piss and retreats. 

He’s in one of the dimly lit corridors when he hears a familiar voice, growling from a closed door that he’s in the process of passing by. He pauses, as anyone would, when hearing one of their business partners in conversation with someone else when they don’t think they’re being overheard. On closer inspection, the door is not fully shut; a crack in the doorway just wide enough for Tommy to see through, as long as he’s not afraid of being caught out. He’s not afraid, and so he does, has already come up with his excuse for if either of the two men inside were to notice him. Not that he’d even need one, Alfie would know that he was eavesdropping, and would probably laugh about it. Neither of them expected the other to be particularly noble, after all.

The two men aren’t exactly deep in conversation, Tommy not recognizing the second man. It’s not the boy he’d been talking to earlier, but he’s just as pretty, Tommy thinks, watching as he buttons his shirt back up, looking ruffled and flushed. They both look as if they’d just been fucking, or if not fucking, they’d been doing something close. Tommy eyes Alfie furtively, curious as to what the man looks like when he’s just had an orgasm. Professional curiosity, of course. The room isn’t well-lit, so it’s hard to tell, but Tommy thinks he looks pink and boneless, similar to how he had earlier, when they were talking. _Twice in one night,_ Tommy thinks to himself, _and with two different men, impressive._

The younger man, now fully clothed and put back together, takes out a cigarette and lights it. “You know,” he says, taking a deep pull, face turned toward Alfie. Something about their body language almost makes Tommy want to smile. The man is obviously looking for something more, while Alfie, now staring into a fireplace, couldn’t seem to care less. “Didn’t think you’d be interested in me.”

The man’s voice is soft for a man, almost delicate. It matches his fine features, the sharp bones of his face making him look almost birdlike. He’s dwarfed, standing next to Alfie’s broad frame, and it weren’t as if Alfie were a particularly tall man. It makes Tommy wonder a bit, because while he’s never been a large man himself, he’s definitely not a wispy little thing like the men he’s seen Alfie with tonight. Tommy doesn’t seem to fit the pattern.

“And why’s that, love?” Alfie asks, and Tommy can’t see his face anymore from his vantage point, so he can’t quite discern the tone. To Tommy, almost an expert in conversing with Alfie Solomons, he sounds almost bored, but as if he’s still at least trying to make an effort. 

The young man waits a moment, still smoking, as if he’s waiting for Alfie to face him. When he doesn’t, he sighs. “Thought you’d be going off with that other man. The one with the eyes.”

Alfie snorts. “They’ve all got eyes, don’t they?” He chuckles, Tommy can’t hear it, but he can see it in the movement of his shoulders. Tommy smirks. Doesn’t have to think hard as to the identity of _the one with the eyes_. 

The other man doesn’t reply, just waits for something. Further elaboration? Comfort? Whatever it is, he’s not going to find it here, isn’t going to find it with Alfie. He takes a step forward, and now Tommy can’t see his face either, both looking into the fire. He places a hand on Alfie’s shoulder, and Tommy squirms in the doorway. Wouldn’t have ever dreamt of touching Alfie like that when they first met, still has to work up the courage to touch him even now, and they’ve been working together for years. 

Alfie doesn’t seem to mind, though, leans into the touch. Tommy sees him sigh, and he finally turns his head to look at the other man. “Who you talking about, then?” Alfie says after a moment, with that purposefully blank expression, eyes wide and unblinking, that he always does whenever he’s trying to play coy about something. 

“You know him,” the man drops his hand, looking down at the ground, as if he can’t bear the man’s direct eye contact now that it’s on him. He looks shy, like he wouldn’t last a minute in their world. “The one you were talking to earlier. Everyone saw you two. Thought you’d take him right there.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows, even though no one is around to see it. The man’s words seem to cut right through him sharply. He can’t tell how they make him feel, but they echo around the interior of his skull, on repeat. He waits with bated breath to hear Alfie’s response to that. 

“Nah,” is all he says at first, nonchalant, unbothered. “Not my type. Too fucking arrogant for my tastes, yeah?” Alfie steps closer to the man, pulling him into his body by the hips. “Too old, too.”

The two kiss, Alfie appearing to swallow the man’s face, all lips and beard. Tommy watches for a moment, out of a morbid sense of curiosity, but then he creeps away, leaving them to their privacy. He’s eavesdropping, sure, but he wasn’t a voyeur. He’s going to leave now, finds a boy in a uniform in the foyer, asks for him to call him a car, like he’d arrived in. The foyer is large, ornate, and there are two men sitting on a bench beside one of the windows who have their hands down the other’s pants, gasping wildly, unconcerned by who may be in the vicinity. Tommy sits in the foyer anyways, staring disinterestedly in a different direction; he doesn’t particularly care about them, and he can easily tune out the sounds of their shared pleasure, along with the considering look that one of the men casts at him as he passes. He listens instead to the band still playing in one of the rooms deeper in the house, echoing sweetly off the marble flooring. Yes, the upper echelon of society hired live bands to play at their orgies.

He’s not offended by Alfie’s words. And not even in a way to save his own pride, in that deeply defensive way people usually react to things like this. It feels more like a continuation of their little game, of their back and forth that has been going on since they first met each other, all those years ago in Camden Town. They say things, and sometimes they mean them, and sometimes they don’t, but at the end of the day, they still understand each other in a way that Tommy at least has never experienced with anyone else. Grace had loved him, but she hadn’t really known him. Polly, and his other family members knew him, but either couldn’t fully understand, or didn’t want to. Lizzie had gotten further than anyone else— she could look into his eyes and see who he was, but he knew that she could not truly love what she saw. She stayed with him, not out of some deep love or commitment, but because she’s learned what she can and cannot tolerate, learned to look into his face and live with what they’ve become. They’d forged themselves into something that mostly worked, lined with jagged edges and tolerant compromise. Lizzie understood their positions, and also understood the satisfaction of what they could offer the other by them equally looking the other way. 

Alfie wasn’t like that. He knew, he knew every dirty, awful thing that Tommy had ever done without him even telling, and all the evil he could ever do, and he accepted it. More than that, he loved it, _the wicked way of our world_ , he’d said once to Tommy, voice strong, angry, but full of righteous conviction. Alfie was an equal, someone who knew the cost of doing business, of making the kind of money that they made, and he reveled in the consequences, regardless of what they were. 

Alfie knew him. And Tommy, in return, knew Alfie. Maybe not every single detail, maybe not the way Alfie takes his tea, or how he looks first thing in the morning, but he _knows_ him. And because he knew Alfie, he also knew when the man was fucking lying. Tommy smiled down at his shoes, or at least as much as he ever smiles. Not Alfie’s type, he shook his head. It was almost laughable, and that wasn’t even him being _arrogant_ , as Alfie had said. There were a handful of things that he knew for certain about Alfie Solomons, and a handful of things that he only suspected. After tonight, more than one of his suspicions had been confirmed. Alfie was indeed a queer, and Alfie would most definitely fuck him, if given the opportunity, no matter what he might say to skinny young men in dimly lit rooms.

His car arrives, and he goes to a hotel. He had a meeting with Solomons a week from then. _Not my type. Too fucking old_ , he muses to himself. He’d see about that.

*

“Alfie. There’s been a last minute change of plans.”

They’re on the phone, and it’s the evening before their meeting. He was changing their plans, yes, but it was assuredly not last minute. Not for him, at least. He was a busy man with a lot of things to do and think about, but at least half of his attention for the previous week had been consumed by thoughts of the next evening. 

Alfie hated changes in plans. Even over the phone, Tommy can hear his displeasure, the deep sighing of a man not used to being jerked around. Well, bully for him. Tommy was going to do so, anyway. “And what might these plans be, Thomas?”

They hadn’t spoken since the party. It wasn’t unusual— they rarely contacted the other unless they had business reasons to do so. As it was, both of their enterprises worked out smoothly enough without constantly checking in with each other. 

“How would you like to burgle an Earl?”

Alfie sucks in a deep breath, and even over the phone, Tommy knows he’s smiling.

*

The Honourable Reginald Whitmore, mere second son of an Earl, lives in a manor just outside of London. Tommy had it on very good authority that he would be hosting an event the same evening that Tommy was meant to meet with Alfie. He knew, because he had been very kindly issued an invitation. Apparently, it was some sort of an art night, one that dear Mr. Whitmore threw quite frequently with his artist friends. Tommy had reached out to the young Reginald, said that he had been intrigued by his previous promise to capture his eyes, and had been immediately invited to all future art nights. 

(Tommy was unsure if he, on accepting the invitation, was going to be expected to perform as some sort of model to rich, bored artists, but they’d learn soon enough that Tommy doesn’t do things just because they’re expected of him.)

Thing was, Tommy had looked into Mr. Whitmore. His father, the _Right_ Honourable, had a certain penchant for collecting valuable objects. In particular, he was said to have a collection of paintings that was rumoured to have been stolen from their rightful owners. He kept it hidden away, but one of the girls Tommy had hired to work at Arrow House had once worked in Reginald’s estate, and had sworn to him that she had seen the paintings hanging up on one of the upper floors in the manor. These paintings were a framed collection of small portraits, painted by someone who had died many years ago, the largest one small enough to fit within a briefcase. The Earl and his heir resided in his country home for 9 months of the year, leaving his London home, with it’s valuable possessions, under the care of his second son. The paintings, not properly belonging to the Earl in the first place, would not be noticed missing until the Earl’s return the following spring. They could disappear without repercussion, quietly blamed on an idiot who opened his doors weekly to his fellow artists, as well as every pretty man who looked his way. 

The paintings, while beautiful, were in no demand. They would be worth a lot to the right collector, but no one was exactly clamouring over anyone for possession. Tommy had heard of the paintings long ago, when he’d first hired the girl. He’d never thought her words to hold any actual merit to them, skeptical, afterall, of an average person’s ability to recognize obscure stolen paintings at a glance. He definitely would not have been able to. But he’d been long curious about the rumour, and once he had discovered that the boy who had refilled his drink was that second son of the Earl, he’d found it impossible to resist taking a quick look. It was the sort of thing that he knew Alfie’d love, no matter what the man said to the contrary. And even if they couldn’t find the paintings, even if they’d never even been there to begin with and his maid had been wrong, he’s sure that they could put their heads together and find something else innocuous to nick. 

Besides, the monetary reward was only secondary, after all. He was bringing Alfie to that beautiful old manor house, outside of London, to seduce him. To parade in front of Alfie, and all those other artists, presenting himself as an object of desire, and find out if Alfie really thought he wasn’t his type. Reginald had assured him that it would be the same type of event as the previous one, had murmured something about _men coming together in the pursuit of beauty,_ and _no judgements_ , so Tommy felt confident in his own ability to be desired. He’d tug Alfie away from the crowd with sweet whispers in his ear about corrupt Earls and hidden treasure, and he’d drink and smoke as Alfie watched him do so. They’d walk the halls and look at riches that didn’t belong to them and take their pick, and then Tommy would tug him into one of the many bedrooms in the many wings. After that point, Tommy stopped planning. He’d be able to improvise from there.

He realized, rather belatedly in the process, that what Tommy was planning was a date. Mr. Whitmore would likely be serving dinner and drinks, and they’d be expected to wear something at least sort of nice. In the clothing department, it wasn’t such a burden for Tommy, as he was always dressed to dine with nobility— but he knew that Alfie was going to have to sacrifice greatly, and step away from his usual outfit of a rumpled, open-necked white shirt with suspenders hanging loosely around his knees. It just wouldn’t do for an orgy disguised as an art night with an Earl’s less important son. 

He was being a bit reckless here. For years, he and Alfie had rotated around the other, eyeing each other for signs of weakness. Tommy had been ruthless about it at first, as was Alfie, uncaring about the damage they caused, as they had come to recognize that forgiveness was always a certainty when it came to the other. Tommy had forgiven Alfie time and time again, even for things that no one would have expected him to ever forgive. 

Alfie, in return, acted as a sort of sparring partner for Tommy, someone that he could always expect to foil his plans with a sardonic grin simply because he had seemingly read his mind. Tommy wouldn’t pretend that he’d done anything near as bad to Alfie as the man had done to him, intentional or not, but Tommy was a bad man, and he saw it as a sort of earthly punishment, of atonement, long before his inevitable fall into Hell, should it exist. And besides, it wasn’t as if he were completely innocent in their business dealings. Alfie, over the years, had had to forgive Tommy for the hundreds of tiny times that Tommy had attempted to swindle or cheat the man. Tommy couldn’t help it, really. Occasionally, he’d send Alfie a bill that had one or two extra numbers stamped on, or contracts with funny little sections in them, just to see if he could get away with it. Sometimes he would, and sometimes he would receive a letter or a phone call where he would be told, in no uncertain terms, to go fuck himself. But then they’d schedule their next meeting, and Tommy would smirk at him across the desk and Alfie would scowl and maybe point a gun or hold a blade to his throat, and then he’d change his mind and they’d get back to their business. He knew that Alfie would have let no one else get away with doing what he did. If he had been anyone else, Alfie would have fired a bullet directly into his skull long ago, and would have felt nothing about it. It’s what Tommy would have done, too. 

Alfie had been an immovable object for so long that Tommy had forgotten that he had a choice in continuing dealing with the man. He was simply there, knowing exactly what he was thinking, staring at him as if he wanted to tear him into pieces. Of course Tommy wanted him. How could he not? He hadn’t been able to properly recognize it at first, mistaking his simmering attraction as frustration or simple affection, but it had become quite obvious over the years. Overhearing that conversation had been the final push, had jolted something loose in him. Previously, Tommy had felt no rush, no desire to hasten their inevitable collision, had been content to just let things develop naturally, but honestly. How could he not smart a bit at being spoken about so derisively, even if it were just in the pillow talk to a man who’d probably just taken Alfie’s cock? It was so blatantly obvious to Tommy that they’d fuck one day, and more than that, it was obvious that they were destined to mean _more_. It was just a matter of one of them crossing that final barrier. And if Tommy had to be the one to do it, so be it. 

*

Tommy begins mentally preparing for his evening early in the day. He’d driven to Ada’s first thing, not even bothering to let Lizzie know that he wouldn’t be back that night. She already knew. Once at Ada’s, he’s on his own, satisfied knowing that Polly had insisted on Karl and Ada spending a few days with her in the wake of Michael’s absence. 

He’s glad they’re gone, because he’s planning on preparing himself more intimately than he would be willing to with them in the same building. He spends most of the day idling around, reading the various books that Ada has strewn about. He notices that she has significantly less books about the cause than he might have expected, at least in comparison to a few years prior. With only a few hours until when he’s meant to meet up with Alfie to head towards Whitmore’s manor, he takes off his clothes and gets into the shower. Under the hot stream of water, Tommy slips a finger into himself, then two, slowly easing open his entrance. He doesn’t do this nearly often enough, so it’s difficult at first, reintroducing himself to sensation that he’s been denying himself for ages. Sometimes, Lizzie would use her fingers on him, playing him from the inside, but it’s never on the top of their list. And with her, it isn’t a prelude, it isn’t leading up to something more. He’s being quite aggressive with himself, ensuring that he really is stretched and loosened, because if his night went according to plan, he’d be accommodating a great deal more than just his fingers. He jerks himself off for good measure, if only so that later he won’t seem too eager.

Tommy doesn’t take too long getting ready after that, still being deliberate. He certainly takes pride in his appearance, has been accused of being far too vain on multiple occasions. Many of those times by Alfie himself, but he knows the man enjoys the fruits of his labour. He likes to think that by this point, their working relationship has gone past Alfie simply thinking that Tommy is pretty and somewhat useful, that he stays around for reasons of a more sentimental and intellectual nature, but there was no reason to not take a bit of care in one’s appearance. Especially since tonight, Tommy wasn’t looking to have a stimulating conversation. So he smooths down his hair, dresses with careful hands, wears a tie at his throat that compliments the colour of his eyes. He can feel a faint stirring in his body, despite having just taken care of himself, a sign of his eagerness for his plans to unfold. They’d been waiting years for this, this final step. Funny, how quickly Tommy had decided on this course of action, how little of a problem he had made it in his own head. It was as if he had simply flipped a switch, and he was ready. As if hearing Alfie even acknowledge Tommy in that sort of way, even spoken to someone else had changed his sense of direction. He had kissed another man, and Tommy’s gravitational pull had spun, where north became south and that was the end of it. Tommy wonders if Alfie had been playing a long game, luring Tommy into a false sense of security, planting the seeds so that he could later pluck the fruit. Tommy rolls his eyes, just thinking it. Alfie didn’t have the fucking patience for something like that. 

He calls a car; he had agreed over the phone that the bearded man would be the one transporting them to Whitmore’s manor, Alfie’s only concession. He’d told Tommy that he didn’t trust any ‘Peaky bugger’ to taxi him around without turning and shooting him in the head. When Tommy had offered to drive, Alfie had simply told him that he’d prefer the bullet to being grievously injured in a car wreck. And so Tommy found himself a way to the bakery, to be shuffled into the backseat of a car driven by one of Alfie’s men. It was a man named Adam, one that Tommy had known for years at this point, and he appeared rather sour about his job that evening. Alfie barked at the man as he settled into the car at Tommy’s right, something about keeping up a positive attitude, which Tommy quietly thought would be a great deal easier if the man wasn’t expected to sit in a car the whole evening, or in some back quarters reserved for servants. 

Alfie himself seemed in reasonably good spirits, all things considering. The man always seemed a bit put off whenever Tommy encountered him outside of their usual locations of business, always seemed much more at ease when he knew every single detail of their surroundings. He’s sure that he’d conducted cursory research when Tommy had told him of his plan (the one to rob, not the one to fuck), but there was no way that he’d be able to learn everything about the Whitmores. And Tommy, content at Alfie being on the back foot, was satisfied to keep him in the dark. Alfie asked probing questions about everything for the entirety of the car ride, about the Whitmores, about the artwork, about what they were meant to be doing there. It was clear that he suspected that there was something more going on, but from the faintly puzzled look on his face, he didn’t appear to have figured it out. Tommy smoked, smugly, and answered the questions with as little detail as possible, which he knew would piss Alfie off.

“Hope you know what we’re fucking doing here, mate.” Alfie murmured as their car approached the estate. All three men eyed the opulent grounds, the colourful blooming of the gardens, the setting sun glinting orange off a nearby lake. Even Tommy, who went out of his way to live as extravagant a lifestyle as possible, who had dined with duchesses and Prime Ministers, felt slightly intimidated by the clear display of wealth. This place heralded thoughts of old money, of gold plucked from the hands of starving peasants, of knights, and lords, and everything about the nobility that Tommy hated. Looking up at the manor, as it came into view at the crest of a hill on their miles of land, any hint of reservation as to his intentions of coming here tonight (again, the intentions to rob, not to fuck) quickly drains out of him. He had no problem stealing from a place like this. Turning to his side to see Alfie staring contemptuously up at the house, Tommy knows he doesn’t have a problem with it, either. 

They’re greeted at the entrance by a valet, who takes one look at Tommy as he gets out of the car, and nods his head. He knows that the man hadn’t recognized him by name, but simply seen his face and his body and had known that he was an invited guest. Alfie, seeing the small exchange and the twitching of Tommy’s lips as he realizes, rolls his eyes, stomping his way to the door without stopping to wait for his companion, or give instruction to Adam. Tommy quickens his pace to catch up with him, lips curling up in a mean little smile. “Careful, Alfie,” Tommy leans into Alfie’s ear as he catches up with the man. He feels like a little boy, tugging at his crush’s pigtails. “Don’t wander too far away. Servants’ll take one look at you and realize you don’t belong.”

Alfie scoffs vindictively, but there’s humour in it. He stops in his tracks, just before the door, and turns to face his companion. Just looking at him, Tommy can tell he’s about to throw a bit of a lighthearted tantrum, and he braces himself accordingly. “Fucking treasure you are, mate. Firstly, you very rudely spring a change of plans on me, your beleaguered business partner, who is simply trying to run my humble bakery without interference from flighty little gypsies, yeah? Secondly, you invite me out, ignoring our very serious dealings, to attend a party thrown by, who was it again?” Alfie pauses theatrically to scratch at his beard, as if he’d truly forgotten the identity of who they’d come here to see. Tommy’s smile grows a bit wider. He gets louder as he continues, cognizant but uncaring of any staff who might be lurking nearby. “Oh yeah, it was some little cunt who’d taken a fancy to you at the last event I’d run into you at. Ensuring that I spend my evening, my fucking valuable time, standing back and watching as men drool over you.”

“Does that bother you?” Tommy interrupts his monologue, a hint of teasing in his otherwise very serious voice. He quirks an eyebrow. “Other men drooling over me?”

“Fuck off,” Alfie replies, in a tone that conveys his ancient weariness with Tommy, a tone that tells of the years they’d spent sniping at the other. He continues on, “and thirdly, and most fucking egregiously? Once we arrive at said cunt’s fucking residence, you’d dare to so snidely imply that despite the fact that my preferences mark me as far more welcome than you at this sort of event, that the servants might drag me by my ankles out to the fucking lawn, yeah, because of my hideous visage?”

“I wouldn’t say hideous,” Tommy shakes his head, thoroughly enraptured in the conversation, in the meager distance between them as they stand on the doorstep of an Earl they’re planning on stealing from. He shoves his smile back down, but he’s sure his amusement still shows in his eyes even though he’s not lying. “You’ve got character.”

Alfie heaves a great sigh, but he doesn’t look away, just as wrapped up as Tommy. He glowers, threateningly, and Tommy is hit by the sudden urge to kiss the grouchiness off of his face. There’s nothing the man could do to make Tommy afraid of him. “Character,” Alfie says, slowly, still doing his very best to appear intimidating, “is a cheery way to tell someone that they’re one of the most unfortunate beasts to ever claw their way through the clay. That the extent of my ugliness is fucking biblical. Do you know what they say God did, yeah, to the mean little swine who insulted poor Elisha in a way similar to what you’ve done to me?”

The name rings a bell, Tommy thinks he might have heard this one before. Maybe it’s one of those stories that their respective faiths share. Or maybe Alfie’s gone on this particular tangent before. “Did he smite them? In all of his glory?” 

“Nah, least not in the traditional sense,” Alfie’s somehow edged even closer, their noses only centimeters apart. Tommy can smell the familiar scent of rum, the dirty smoke of Camden Town wafting over him. The urge to kiss him has not gone away. “Sent a couple of bears, right? Didn’t stop until there were 40 corpses, children all, mauled them to fucking death.”

“Sounds like a bit of an overreaction.”

“Yeah, well, scriptures full of ‘em, eh?” Alfie’s storminess is still firmly in place when the door to the manor swings open, surprising the two men, who had forgotten where they were. They twist their heads around to see who has interrupted them, laughter threatening to burst out of Tommy’s chest when they both recognize Reginald, looking as if he hadn’t a clue what he was walking into. This time, however, he’s seemed to have recognized the atmosphere, eyes darting between the two of them, as if he’s witnessing a row. Tommy manages to keep his levity contained, stepping forward to clap a hand on the lad’s shoulder. It’s not the proper greeting for a man of his standing, but that’s sort of the point, isn’t it?

“Tommy,” Reginald manages to get out, still looking between the two men on his front steps. “Hope I’m not interrupting?” 

Tommy glances back at Alfie, who has seemingly gotten properly angry in the few seconds since the lad has been out there. Might have something to do with the familiarity of Reginald’s greeting, of calling him by his first name, or of the informal way that Tommy had touched him. “Of course not,” Tommy lets his lips curl up, casts the young noble a heavy-lidded smile. “Just having a bit of a dispute with my partner here.”

“Oh?” Reginald regards them now with real interest, with perhaps a hint of disappointment. Tommy can feel Alfie’s eyes on him, inquiring as to what the fuck he’s doing. Tommy doesn’t turn to look back, doesn’t give him the satisfaction of being acknowledged. “Are you two…?” 

Tommy nods, hears Alfie shuffling beside him. “We’re business partners.” He tells him, truthfully, but putting a great deal more emphasis on the word _partners_ than strictly necessary. It’s for a few reasons, really. The first, as an incentive to keep Reginald at arm’s length, and give them reason to sneak off later. It was generally considered rude to openly leer at someone else’s man, even if the event they’re currently attending sounds as if it might be a bit more communal than what Tommy’s used to. But more truthfully, it is simply because he wants to see Alfie’s reaction to it, wants to see what he’ll do at the suggestion. He peers at the bearded man out of the corner of his eye, watches Alfie’s expression shift from surprise, to confusion, to something somehow both sharper, and more subdued. Alfie’s looking back at him, watching him carefully, as if to say, _what exactly are you planning?_

“Well, er. Alright then.” Reginald is still looking between the two, eyes lingering on Alfie. Alfie’s done his part and is dressed himself in something suitable for the occasion and is looking quite handsome to Tommy’s eyes, but to someone like an Earl’s son, Alfie’s efforts had likely been like trying to sew up a gaping wound with a single stitch. They’ve both aged rapidly over the years, he and Alfie both, but it’s Alfie whose body has started openly showing the signs of wear, from his reliance on his cane and the creaky way he sometimes moves, to the patches of inflamed, itchy skin around his temples. 

Tommy’s seen the rash look a lot worse— there were times that Tommy didn’t know how he could stand it, with great patches of it creeping up from his collar and covering all the skin it could manage. It’d be red and painful looking, and Tommy would feel his own skin itching just looking at it. At the moment, it was just that hint of it, perhaps having been beaten back to submission by whatever creams and elixirs his doctor could provide. Regardless, it was likely very unsightly for a man with a delicate constitution like the Earl’s spare here, and Tommy could read it in the boy’s eyes. He could see him mulling it over, Alfie’s rough handsomeness, combined with Tommy’s more delicate, if aging beauty. Would he decide to try and rescue the fair Blinder, or would he want to see exactly how much Alfie could make Tommy unravel? To transfer some of that roughness, some of that perceived filth? Only time could tell. 

Reginald leads them inside, Tommy not sparing another look back at Alfie. He can hear his cane, cracking loudly over the marble floor, so he knows that the man is still following. The interior of the manor is just as splendid as the exterior, fixtures dripping with gold and rooms decorated wall to wall with expensive looking art. Every surface gleams, as if having been shined immediately before one might view it, from the floors, all the way up the towering ceilings, with their murals of beautiful women and fat babies. The place is straight out of a storybook, more Versailles than what Tommy had expected, would be better fit to a French countryside than something barely outside of London. As if to remind them they’re still in England, the King stares at them from the walls in every room they pass, regarding the two gangsters and their guide with the same amount of regal condescension he’s been staring at them with for all their lives. 

They’re brought to what is probably a dining room, but has been emptied of most of its furniture. Instead of a dining table and chairs, the floor has been covered in soft looking cushions, in silks that will provide no comfort atop marble floors, draped precariously close to where candles burn, peppered throughout the room. There really are easels and canvases strewn about, though none have been used yet by the men already gathered in the room. Tommy counts about 20 men, in various states of dress, lounging atop cushions, surrounded by bottles of wine and champagne with medieval-looking goblets clutched between their fingers. Some of the men are older, ugly, and some of them are young and pretty, with collars pulled loose to best inspire the artists around them. Some of them look up at the arrival of Reginald and his newest guests, but most of them couldn’t be less interested. As they enter the room, Tommy watches as one of the younger men tucks himself neatly between another man’s outstretched legs, reaching for the man’s belt. Tommy politely averts his gaze, but he’s sure that the two men wouldn’t mind. 

“You’re welcome to join in,” Reginald says, directly into Tommy’s ear. Alfie’s automatically come to a stop on the other side of him, keeping a distance between himself and Reginald. The lad touches his elbow, grazing a finger along it, hoping to tempt Tommy forward and away from his companion. 

Tommy tilts his head slightly, the only acknowledgment that he is speaking to the Earl’s son. “You said you’d be serving dinner?” He asks, more for the sake of Alfie beside him, and for something to say that won’t come off as flirtatious. 

“Of course,” Reginald nods, and Tommy thinks that he’s really quite pretty, in his own rich, unbearably sheltered way. He’s got big sparkling eyes and blonde curls that bounce a bit when he walks. He looks like the kind of man that Tommy could do anything to, which is something he might have tested out if he didn’t have more pressing plans for the evening. The boy gestures towards an archway on the other side of the room. “Refreshments are served in there. Though after you’ve indulged yourself, I might have to steal you away for that painting.”

Alfie finally speaks, clearing his throat. “Reggie, mate, it’s quite precious that you think that you could ever steal a man like Thomas Shelby.” To Tommy’s immense surprise, Alfie throws a proprietary arm around Tommy’s shoulder, tugging him in closer against his body. Tommy finally looks over at the man, _what the fuck are you doing_ already on the tip of his tongue, but he shuts his mouth. Alfie’s regarding him with a sort of conspiratorial amusement, eyebrows raised, daring Tommy to pull away. Tommy purses his lips slightly, half disappointed that Alfie’s caught up with this particular game, half delighted to be able to play it with him. Without waiting for another response from their host, Alfie starts walking, pulling Tommy along with him in his wake. 

They weave through the cushions and the lounging bodies, fielding curious glances as they do so. Alfie’s leading him to space on the far side of the room, where the arrangement of rich strangers is a bit more scarce. They’re still fully in view of the rest of the room, and Tommy’s not exactly sure of the man’s intentions when Alfie deposits him on a plush pile of cushions. Still standing, Alfie takes the briefcase they’ve brought with them to hide the art in, out of Tommy’s hand, face frustratingly blank as he tucks it under his arm. “You wait here a moment, alright?” Alfie leans in closer, or as close as he can lean with his bad back. Tommy’s only sort of seated, so Alfie’s able to whisper in close to the side of his face. “I’ll find something besides whiskey to pour down that throat of yours, eh?” 

If Tommy were the type of man to blush, now would be the time. Alfie straightens himself up, and Tommy darts a hand out quickly, to grasp at Alfie’s strong forearm as he slips away. Both of them can feel the eyes of people watching them, and Tommy can only surmise that Alfie’s got the same idea in his head on how they’re going to extract themselves from this main room later in the evening. Alfie does think they’re here primarily for a robbery, after all. No one would think twice if they’d noticed two men disappearing into a dark corridor, not with the way they’re hanging off each other. Tommy just wonders if Alfie thinks it’s all a ruse, or if he’s deduced Tommy’s true intentions. He is exactly the type of man who would flutter his eyelashes and act the part, as long as it served his purposes— the man might just leave it at that.

Right before Alfie fully departs, he casts his eyes threateningly around the room, glaring at every man who he can catch staring back. Tommy settles down fully on the only slightly uncomfortable ground, finds that concealed beneath the cushions and the silks is another layer of softness, perhaps a large mat that has been rolled across the floor. He slips out of his jacket and takes out a cigarette, smirking slightly as everyone in the room immediately looks away from Alfie’s glowering, and Tommy knows instinctively that no one will be approaching him in the man’s absence. He lights his cigarette impassively, watching as Alfie disappears around the corner towards where Reginald had said there would be food, listening to the fading tap of his cane as he gets further and further away. A few feet away sits an expensive looking bottle of champagne, and Tommy’s here to indulge, isn’t he, so he retrieves it. 

He’d be a picture of decadence, a bottle of champagne in one hand, cigarette in the other, forest green satin waistcoat glossy and brilliant in the candlelight. That’s how Alfie finds him when he returns a few minutes later, leaned back on his elbow and legs stretched out in front of him, taking a swig directly from the bottle.

Alfie raises an eyebrow at him, but he’s shamelessly looking up and down the length of his body. He’s holding a plate of something that Tommy can’t see from this angle in one hand, his fingers on the other hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of something and the head of his cane. He snorts, still staring down. “Aren’t you a picture, treacle?”

Tommy smiles up at him. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

Alfie scoffs, passing everything in his hands for Tommy to take. He notices that the briefcase seems to have disappeared. Perhaps he had stashed it away somewhere, not currently necessary. When Tommy takes the plate and takes a look at the bottle, he shoots Alfie a look as the man rather laboriously lowers himself to the floor. He groans the whole while, limbs stiff and creaking, as if he’s very unused to sitting on the ground. He settles, and Tommy hands him back the plate. “Really, Alfie? Grapes and wine?” 

“What?” Alfie asks, wide-eyed, though he still looks as if he’s in a bit of pain, contorting himself like this. “Thought you might appreciate the sentiment.”

Tommy hums quietly in response, now eyeing the bottle that Alfie had brought him. He’s not an expert with wine, doesn’t care for the stuff, but even he can tell that this is a nice bottle. Tommy holds it out to the other man, hopeful that he’d partake. Wants to see Alfie’s lips, quite frankly already obscene, stained red from the drink. “Are you going to feed the grapes to me, then? Or would that be too subtle?”

Alfie grins, twisting his spine, bones cracking noisily. He looks more at ease when he’s finished, and he takes the wine from him easily. “Oh, sorry, were you going for some subtlety, mate? Must’ve slipped right past me, right, your _business partner_.” He pitches his voice up at the end and blinks his eyes rapidly, doing an extremely poor and breathy impression of Tommy. 

Tommy inhales his cigarette deeply, then blows the smoke directly in the other man’s face. Alfie waves his hand in the air to dispel it, only looking a bit murderous about it. He shrugs a shoulder, casual. “Thought it’d be good cover. That I’d be left alone if they thought I was with you.” 

It’s only sort of a lie, and Alfie knows all of his tells. He raises an eyebrow, but pops open the cork on the bottle with a flick of a pocket knife. Tommy holds up his champagne, and they delicately clink the mouths together, Tommy watching hungrily as Alfie drinks the wine. Tommy has no intentions of getting drunk here tonight, and he knows that Alfie will likely only drink a mouthful or two. Still, the moment slides into something that Tommy hadn’t entirely expected, edges blurring into something soft and quiet. There’s people talking all around them, of course, but they’re far removed in their little corner. Tommy loves just talking to Alfie, loves the teasing, the flirting. There’s even something to be said for when they’re fighting, shouting, like Alfie loves to do. Tommy still remembers when the priest had taken Charlie, still remembers Alfie’s rage as he got straight into his face, unafraid. Tommy had been almost ready to fall apart, to crumble into a million tiny pieces, but it was as if Alfie’s shouting solidified him somehow, as if his angry words were the glue that he needed to patch himself up and do what he had needed to do. 

Tommy tries not to think about that day very much. He lowers his eyes, something skidding to a halt inside of him. His chest suddenly feels too tight, and he crushes his cigarette against the plate in Alfie’s hand, as if that might be the culprit, carefully avoiding getting ash on the vibrant grapes. 

Alfie notices his shifting mood, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he simply plucks one of the grapes off of its stem, popping it into his mouth, letting his eyes drift around the room. Tommy’s quietly grateful for it, knows how the man likes to push and prod people whenever they do something as unforgivable as show a sign of weakness. Neither of them are under the impression that the other is entirely whole or sane; there are delicate bruises and sucking wounds buried under layers of stillness, on Tommy’s part, and dramatic displays violence, on Alfie’s. Once, they would have greedily consumed and digested any hint of those old injuries, keeping it on hand in order to best lay more hurt down on the other at a later date. By now, they already knew all they needed to know, had used up all of their ammunition in previous battles. By now, they were content to just sit together on their cushions, eyes averted in a rare display of empathy, sipping champagne and eating grapes.


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this was written as a one shot, but i've split it up for ease of reading. direct continuation from before!!!)

*

Alfie does not feed him any grapes, but he does let him steal a few off of his plate. Tommy does so with a great deal of duplicity, ensuring that he only reaches out when the other man is looking in a different direction, his earlier levity slowly creeping its way back in with every faux-sharp look Alfie gives him whenever he looks back to find his plate a bit more empty. The evening is progressing around them, wine-flushed faces of eager men pairing up or descending into groups. There are one or two men actually painting, one of the easels set up a few meters away from Tommy and Alfie themselves. Tommy’s suspicious about that particular artist, a wizened old man who keeps peeking over in their direction. Tommy tips the champagne back into his open mouth as he watches the man carefully avoid his gaze. He smirks. He’s definitely painting them. 

Tommy and Alfie had for the most part just sat in a comfortable silence. Alfie will occasionally throw out a comment or ask a question, and Tommy will answer, but neither of them are pressed to fill their silence. Tommy, who has drank a bit more than he had originally intended, bubbles passing smoothly down his throat, lets himself lounge a bit more loosely than he had before. He grabs at a few pillows within his reach, piling them up and resting his head back. Alfie is sitting at his side, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. Tommy had scooted over a bit earlier, and as he fully reclines, he twines a foot over one of Alfie’s calves. It’s low enough to not be an immediate come on, just an innocent brush of a foot, and Alfie certainly doesn’t look like he minds. Following in Tommy’s example, Alfie collects a few extra pillows to support his lower back, then repositions himself forward so that he can rest a hand on Tommy’s sock-covered ankle. He quirks an eyebrow at him as he does so, eyes dark, daring him to say something about it. 

Tommy just tips more of the champagne back, smiling slightly as he averts his gaze to look over the room once more. His eyes wander to one of the larger groups, one who has fully dropped the pretense of creating art. There are five men who have clawed the clothing off of each other, bodies just a blur of movement and skin from where Tommy’s watching. There’s one man in particular that catches his eye, one of the prettier ones, his head thrown back in ecstasy, exposing the long line of this throat to the air. Tommy tilts his head, following that neck downwards, but the rest of his body is mainly blocked by two men who have latched themselves onto him. One is down by his cock, the other kissing every part of his upper body that he can reach, from collarbone to hipbone. They look like they’re enjoying themselves, and Tommy can feel himself responding to the carnal display. Alfie strokes his thumb against the bone of his ankle, having slipped down his sock.

“You know,” Tommy says quietly, but he sees Alfie perk up as he listens. “I’ve never done anything like that.”

Alfie, who had been busy staring off into the middle distance, not paying any attention at all, turns to where he’s facing. When he sees what he’s looking at, he snorts. “You’ve never engaged in group sex with other men? Not surprised there, mate.”

Tommy turns that over in his head a bit. It hadn’t been exactly what he meant, not as simple, but he thinks that Alfie knows that. He’s done a lot of things with a lot of different people, men included, but nothing near as scandalous, orgy or not. Tommy inclines his head back over to look at Alfie, putting the sight of the pretty man out of his head. Alfie’s lips are wonderfully red, the bottle of wine at his side with a modest amount drained from it. He looks pleasantly flushed, probably about the same amount of drunk as Tommy, though Tommy’s almost drained his champagne. It seems as though Alfie’s in an indulgent mood tonight. Tommy’s pleased at the thought of being able to test another one of his assumptions about the man. Wonders what kind of drunk he’ll be.

A moment passes, a particularly loud moan from one of the couples ringing out across the room. Alfie’s thumb keeps stroking, and his face twists up into a grin as he returns Tommy’s eye contact. “Although,” Alfie hedges, leaning in closer, conspiratorially, “I do have to say, that it’s quite the shame.”

“What is?” Tommy asks, placing down his bottle and folding his hands across his ribs, giving the appearance of seriousness. His professionalism is belayed by the fact that he’s laid supine across burgundy and gold pillows, draped in thick candle smoke, nudging his foot in closer.

Alfie hums, and he jerks his chin in the direction of the group they’d been observing. “It’s a shame, ‘cos I can picture you perfectly in the center of all that attention, you silly boy. Think you’d quite enjoy it, yeah? The adoration? If you could learn to ever let yourself go a bit. Though I’m not quite sure you need any more worship, mate.”

Tommy nods his head solemnly, as if he’s deeply considering what Alfie’s said. If he were younger, his cock would have twitched at the mention of worship. He presses on, picks something he can safely comment on. “Let myself go? You think I’m repressed, then?”

“Well, you are Catholic, ain’t you?” 

Tommy exhales a breath of laughter, allowing that. He can’t keep his eyes still, keeps looking from Alfie’s distractingly red lips, to the rings on his fingers, glinting gold, to the trail of hair that Tommy can see poking out from his collar (unbuttoned almost as soon as they had sat down). He wants to reach out and touch, but he’ll restrain himself for the time being. “And you?”

“Am I Catholic?” Alfie’s eyelids open wide, in that fake coy way that Tommy wants to kiss off his face. 

“Fuck off,” Tommy shakes his head, patting at his pockets now, looking for another cigarette. He thinks they’re in his jacket, laying just out of reach, and he’s really quite comfortable with Alfie’s hand on his foot. Without making eye contact, he continues. “Would you enjoy something like that?”

“Oh, that’s what you meant.” With that hand not on Tommy’s ankle, he begins thoughtfully stroking at his beard, drawing Tommy’s attention back to his face as he does so. “Is that an invitation then? You’re asking me if I’d like to participate in group sex?”

Again, Tommy exhales his laughter, though he decisively rolls his eyes as he does so. He doesn’t reply, just waits for Alfie to keep speaking. 

“Well, I suppose, if there were ever a time to do so, it’d be right fucking now, right, considering our current company. However, I think I will have to decline. Afraid I’m far too old to perform with that much of an audience. Prefer my fucks one-on-one, yeah? Though, don’t let me stop you, if you’ve decided it’s to your liking after all. I cannot guarantee that I won’t miss you while you’re gone.”

“You’d miss me?”

“Yeah, reckon I would.” Alfie’s thumb deviates from its path, dipping back, sliding across his Achilles tendon. It makes him tense up his calf muscle, an involuntary shiver going down his spine, two movements that he’s sure Alfie doesn’t miss. 

“I’d be just over there.” Tommy’s shifting his body in closer, hooking his leg more fully across Alfie’s, soft of his knee against the front of Alfie’s. His brain is slowly beginning to come to a crawl, a fog of lust overtaking him, making him not care about how it might look. All he knows is that Alfie’s still looking at him, that dark look in his eyes. 

Alfie releases his foot completely, but it’s only to slip his hand up the outside of Tommy’s pant leg, coming to rest just above his knee. He squeezes, thumb pressing into the inside of his thigh, drawing a silent gasp from Tommy. “Too far,” he nods, wisely. “And besides, it’d be counterproductive to your plan here tonight, petal.”

Tommy sits up, keeping his leg where it is, but bringing his upper body in closer. Alfie has to lean back a bit, having been so close. He’s remarkably impressed with himself when he’s able to speak coherently. “Counterproductive? I don’t see how. I could have a nice fuck while you wait patiently on your cushion, and then we could go find those paintings, eh?” It’s the first time in a long while that either of them have even thought about the paintings.

Alfie grins. “Wasn’t the plan I was talking about, sweet thing. And it wouldn’t work, either way, because I’ve changed my mind. I think right now, if you got up, took off your clothes, and went to join in with your little lordling, or with any other man in this room, I definitely fucking wouldn’t wait patiently on the side ‘till you’ve finished.”

Tommy inhales, unable to look anywhere in the room except into Alfie’s eyes. “What would you do?”

“I would pull you out by the scruff of your pretty neck, yeah, find a nice, dark corner, throw you down and fuck you senseless, Tom.”

Tommy raises a single eyebrow, determined to control himself, even as a little part of him celebrates his victory. That is, after all, why he’s here, right? To get Alfie to admit to this attraction between them? But he will _not_ simply launch himself at the other man, regardless of how much he might want to. No matter how much Alfie’s words rush straight to his cock. Like everything else in their relationship, he would not make this easy for the other man. “Is that the drink speaking, Mr. Solomons? Are you succumbing to the perils of red wine? You wouldn’t be the first.”

“No,” Alfie says, and the bastard licks his plump lips, pink tongue darting over red. His eyes had darkened impossibly more at the formality of Tommy’s tone. “Though, if we’re on the topic of succumbing, I do have some thoughts on the matter, thoughts I feel would do you a world of good to take note of.”

“But of course.” Tommy tilts his head to the side. Alfie’s hair has grown out a bit longer than he’d usually let it, blending seamlessly into the wildness of his beard. He’d been quite well groomed when they’d arrived earlier in the evening, but Alfie had a bad habit of constantly fidgeting. Fidgeting with his clothes, with his rings, with his cane, and of course, with his hair. The result was hair that always looked as if someone had just finished ruffling it, and in this particular situation, there was a soft looking piece that was hanging down his forehead. Tommy considered the implications of brushing it back into his hairline, fingers nervous and twitching as he balled them into fists. _Fuck it,_ he thinks, letting his hand dart out towards the man’s face.

His hair is just as soft as he’d thought, and Tommy’s breath hitches as he tucks it back. Alfie pushes his forehead into his hand, touch turning into more of a caress as he drags his fingers down the side of the man’s face. Alfie inhales, eyelids lowering slightly, still sharply observing, in that inscrutable way of his. Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever wanted another person more than he wants Alfie in that moment. The entire room could be watching, the entirety of Britain could be peering in through the window, and he wouldn’t care in the slightest, was about half a second away from throwing his inhibitions away and mounting the man right then and there. It doesn’t help when Alfie raises his own hand, fingers slowly circling around Tommy’s wrist, pressing at the pulse point there.

“Right,” Tommy manages to choke out, trying to blink away his sudden weakness, but Alfie’s grip on his wrist and on his thigh is tight and it’s all he can think about. “Why don’t we go look for those, uh.” His mind is uncharacteristically empty, stumbling to catch up, and he can’t think of the word. He should be embarrassed about that, but again, there’s not much room for anything that isn’t how strong Alfie is, what it’d feel like being held down by the man. Eventually, the words fumble forward. “Those paintings.”

“Of course. ‘S why we’re here, innit?” 

They withdraw from each other, and it’s a bit self-conscious, at least on Tommy’s part. Neither of them let it show, faces smooth and calm as they’re reintroduced back into the room they’re in. No one is really paying attention to them anymore, save the lone painter, bent over his easel, who Tommy catches staring as he scoops up his nearly empty bottle of champagne, waiting for Alfie to haul himself to his feet. Tommy had felt the strangest urge to help him up, but doesn’t act on it. He can’t imagine reminding Alfie that they’re not quite young men anymore would be conducive to his goal of getting laid here tonight. 

Alfie groans as he reaches his normal height, turning to Tommy with a look that says he should follow before marching in the direction of the room serving food. He trails after him, still careful to not look as if he’s over eager, or suspicious to anyone else in the room, who again, aren’t paying attention. He chances a glance over his shoulder at the last moment before turning around the corner, trying to get a glimpse at whatever is one the man’s easel, but all he sees is a flash of deep red, the same colour as the cushions.

Alfie doesn’t go far, is currently leaning beside one of the grand tables that have been shoved against the far wall. Tommy meanders his way over, peering curiously at the selection of hors d’oeuvres spread out for the evening. It’s mainly foods that Tommy could imagine being served at the most lavish of banquets, and he snorts, thinking about Alfie seeing a spread like this and only loading his plate up with grapes. Tommy, not in the mood for food, tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Right,” Alfie says, suddenly in his ear. Tommy doesn’t start, but instead shivers, shoulders tensing at the feel of the man’s hot breath on his neck. “Let’s find this fucking treasure, yeah?”

*

The halls of the Whitmore Manor are sprawling, though almost completely deserted. Alfie had peeked his head through a door off the main hall, had come face to face with a handful of men in servant’s uniforms, playing cards and looking very surprised to see them. Alfie had feigned drunkenness, slurring a quick apology, assuring the men that he’d just been looking for a place to piss. Tommy had wanted to laugh at the dour looks on the men’s faces as they retreated. Alfie could certainly have that effect on people. 

“They’re going to think you’re going to piss on the carpet somewhere.”

Alfie snorts, rather unappealingly, but Tommy’s too gone on this to find it anything but charming. “Who fucking cares what they think, mate? It’s just the servants.”

Tommy raises both of his eyebrows at that, genuinely surprised that something like that would come out of Alfie’s mouth. “Never expected you to hold such old-fashioned views of the help.”

The man makes a strange little dismissive noise in the back of his throat, waving the hand not holding the case in the air. His rings reflect in the artificial light of the corridor they’re wandering down. “Right, because normally, I’d be a paragon of righteous fury on the behalf of ‘em all, yeah? Well known for my respect for the downtrodden. Ask any of my employees, and they’ll tell you the extent of my respect.”

“But in a house like this, the servants to the gentle nobility…”

“Right, perhaps I could have worded that better, then. Who fucking cares what any of them think? Regardless of their profession? Besides, the fact that we’re in a house like this is precisely the reason I know that they don’t give much of a fuck about me.” Alfie clears his throat, preparing to launch into one of his speeches. “In a house like this, the only sordid secrets worthy of gossiping about are that of their masters, their employers. I’ve got no fucking lands, no ostentatious title, just a humble baker, come to gawk at the trappings of upper class beauty and have obviously gotten in over my head with the drink. Why would they care about my stumbling about in the halls? What do I have to offer them in terms of gossip?”

Tommy gives him a skeptical look out of the corner of his eye. They’ve turned a corner, and have emerged into a less opulent wing of the house, likely one of the back areas not meant for guests. He doesn’t know how they’ve gotten to this topic of conversation from Alfie talking about how he’d throw him down and fuck him not 10 minutes earlier. But as usual with Alfie, they’ve veered off course, and now Tommy is committed to what they’re talking about. “You can’t honestly believe that.”

“And why fucking shouldn’t I, eh? Do you think yourself important enough to sway the interests of men and women who have dedicated their lives to the nobility?”

Tommy doesn’t reply, because doing so would make him sound unbearable. He won’t tell Alfie that the gossiping of the servants is precisely the reason that they’re there, that girl who told him of the paintings. He adopts a disaffected expression, one that is so familiar to him, it’s like sinking into another skin. 

“Oh, right.” Alfie’s looking at him, Tommy can feel his gaze, can hear the smile on the man’s face as he speaks. “Forgot who I was talking with, for a moment there. ‘Course you’d think you’re important enough, as a fine, upstanding Officer of the British Empire.”

“And of course you’d think yourself immune to gossip. As if no one will remember the notorious gangster darkening their doorstep.” He says it sharper than he’d intended, but he makes no attempt to soften the words once he starts. Alfie doesn’t require honeyed words. 

“Not immune to it. I’d have to be real fucking naive to think that I’m not an exceedingly interesting person.” Alfie pauses a minute, as Tommy snorts in laughter at that. He continues. “All I’m saying is that what they say and what they do will not affect me in the long term. They’ll continue talking about what our young Reg got up to here tonight, and maybe they’ll be some mention of two gangsters slipping away in the dark. But why would that be of any concern to me?”

Tommy looks at him, stopping midway down the hall to do so, and Alfie pauses gamely to let him stare. Tommy can think of a million reasons why it might matter, why it does matter to Tommy. “Because of what we’re here to do, perhaps? Navigating suspicion.” He’s wary of saying even that, when they’re here to steal. Houses like this, the walls have ears. 

Alfie’s grinning at him. “Am I a man who cares about appearances? Alibis? I’ll leave that to you, petal.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, and continues on walking. They’ve come to a winding set of stairs, which they climb up, up, up, until they’re both pink faced from the exertion. Alfie’s got a genuine reason to be so out of breath, but Tommy has the sense to feel vaguely embarrassed by how winded he gets from simply climbing up what must be three levels of the manor. There’s a sharp pinching in his side, and his lungs struggle to keep up.

“Getting too fucking old for this,” Alfie mutters under his breath as they finally come out onto a landing, leaning heavily against his cane. There’s a fine sheen on his forehead, complexion pallid and shiny enough for Tommy to feel a brief flash of genuine concern for the man. However, he doesn’t go toppling to the floor in a fainting fit, so Tommy figures he must be alright. 

“We’ve not even done anything,” Tommy huffs out in reply, trying to look more put together than his companion, but can’t quite conceal just how much the climb has set his lungs aching. He clears his throat from a build-up of phlegm, takes a swig of the champagne he’s still clutching in his hand. 

“Some gangsters we are,” Alfie manages to chuckle, “dreadfully frightening, aren’t we, nearly defeated by an incline. If my younger self could see me here, thoroughly embarrassing myself in front of a beautiful man, right, I’d bludgeon myself to death, right there on the spot.”

Tommy’s lips curl up softly, and he casts it Alfie’s way. “You’ve the ability to feel embarrassment? Never let on before.”

Alfie returns the smile, taking a lumbering step closer. The tension from earlier abruptly returns. “Cheeky, cheeky, cheeky. Can we go back to how you were in the other room? All wide-eyed and quivering, like an angel.”

Tommy’s smile falls off his face, and he scowls. “I wasn’t quivering.”

“I think I know quivering when I see it, mate. Practically trembling in your pretty suit.”

“You must have me mistaken for another man, Mr. Solomons. I do not quiver, nor do I tremble.” Tommy feels that slow warmth slinking back into his veins, thoughts of his aging body fading into the background as he steps into Alfie’s personal space. “Especially not for men who’ve embarrassed themselves climbing up a few flights of stairs.”

There’s a low sound from Alfie, a growl, but the smile hiding behind the man’s beard does not disappear. Instead, there’s a quick flash of movement, of Alfie surging forward in a surprising show of vitality as he swings Tommy backwards until he’s thudding dully against the wall, causing the champagne to go crashing down at their feet. Tommy releases a soft, shocked gasp as he’s caged in, no parts of their bodies touching save for Alfie’s elbow pressing sharply into the bones just below his throat, squeezing him in place with carefully controlled strength. It’s not a gentle hold, not something that Tommy is used to, but it’s something that he’s found himself fantasizing about more and more the past week. Thinking about Alfie wielding his power, about the man’s inherent violent tendencies, had brought him to completion for a few nights. 

“Tommy, you sweet, silly boy.” Alfie coos, and Tommy can hear the man dropping his suitcase, his cane, echoing off the wooden floors. “Are we really playing that game right now? Are we really pretending that you’ve not been gagging for it since we entered this ugly fucking place?”

Tommy’s breath stutters, can feel his blood pounding through his veins. He squirms slightly in place, disconcerted by how he’s pinned to the wall so easily by his shoulders, but he brings his hands up to clench at the man’s arm on his collar. They’re in the middle of the hallway, though there’s been no one around for ages. _Fuck it,_ he thinks to himself, hands shaking with his resolution for what he wants to do next. “Alfie. Let go of me.”

“Not holding onto you, am I?” Alfie murmurs, but stops leaning his weight so heavily, allowing for Tommy’s escape. The man’s eyes have shuttered slightly, as if he’s having genuine second thoughts about Tommy’s enthusiasm for how things have turned out, but they turn pleased and amused as Tommy promptly drops to his knees. “Oh, that’s a lovely sight.”

Tommy ignores him as he kneels, careful to avoid the small pool of champagne on the hardwood. There’s no nonsense as he works the man’s trousers down, tugging methodically at the layers of fabric between him and his prize. Alfie has to cooperate, has to shrug his suspenders off, quickly unbuttoning his own shirt so shirttails won’t get in the way. With both of their hard work and dedication, Tommy’s able to pull Alfie’s hardening cock out, eliciting a soft hum from the man above him.

Tommy knows what to do here, and even if he didn’t, he’s nearly desperate at this point and he’d be able to figure it out. Alfie’s cock will be a satisfying thickness and weight in his hand, coming to life under Tommy’s gaze. He’s cut, which is unfamiliar to Tommy, and he leans his head in to examine more closely, letting his breath ghost across him. He inhales deeply, eyes fluttering as Alfie’s hot, musky scent washes over him, sending shivers down his spine as his body automatically responds to the smell. Tommy leans in closer, nose tracing over the seam of the man’s thigh, into the coarse curls above his cock, which is rousing sleepily with no contact except Tommy’s breath. 

He inhales again, heart pounding. “You smell good,” he murmurs, statement sounding stupid to his ears. He sounds half-dazed already, voice not quite slurring with his arousal, but well on his way to it. He can’t help it, Alfie smells good, his natural scent mixed with warmth and sweat and salt. As a reward for smelling so good, Tommy picks up his hand which had dropped away, and wraps his fingers around the base. Alfie’s still not quite hard, but is so hot under his hand, blood-hot, and responding in earnest now that Tommy’s got a hand on him proper. “I want to taste you.”

Above him, Alfie groans. Tommy glances up at him, taking in the state of him with a fair degree of satisfaction. Alfie looks like he’s in physical pain, anguished, disbelieving. His hands are braced against the wall above Tommy’s head, caging the smaller man in with his hips. He opens his mouth, makes a false start before he clears his throat, and tries again. His voice cracks as he says, “go on then, I’d never deprive you of something you wanted, mate.”

A smile slides slowly across Tommy’s face, amused enough at Alfie’s words that he’s able to think coherently around the intoxicating aroma. He drags his hand down, and it’s dry and awful, causing the man above him to flinch as he’s coaxed, despairingly, into hardness. “How kind of you, Mr. Solomons.” Tommy purrs, blinking slowly up at the man. “Self-sacrificing, really, doing this all for me.”

“You know me, Tom.” Alfie chokes, fingers clenching into fists as Tommy squeezes tighter and tighter, each of them determined to make it more difficult, more painful for the other in equal measure. “Always going above and beyond for my business associates.”

“Hm,” Tommy hums, turning his gaze back to the cock in his hand, considering. This is all well and good, and he’d wake up tomorrow morning satisfied if all he did was take Alfie in his mouth and do whatever else they wanted to do. But there’s a wiggling thought in the back of his head that is determined to hear more, to make Alfie say it, to acknowledge the burning need that Tommy also feels, to validate the connection that they share. He obviously wanted to fuck him, had said it outloud, but it wasn’t enough. Tommy could just take him in his mouth right now, but he had to take more. He changes tactics, just slightly, uncaring of whether his attempts would seem transparent or not. He just wants to hear it. “Do you ever think of me?”

Alfie scoffs. “You alright down there? ‘Course I’ve thought about you. You’ve been a nasty little thorn in my side for years.” He nudges his hips forward, encouraging Tommy to get a move on as he plays at being coy. 

Tommy lifts his other hand, holds it at Alfie’s hip to steady him. “No. When you’re in your bed, and it’s dark, do you ever think of me like this?” Tommy bends forward, and he extends his tongue, flickering it over the salty slit of Alfie’s cock, teasing just long enough for Alfie to begin twitching. “Do you ever think of me, on my knees for you?”

“Bloody fuck,” Alfie hisses, hips pushing forward with more strength behind it now, fully hard in Tommy’s hand. He doesn’t respond further, in an uncharacteristic loss of speech. There’s sweat beading at his brow, but whether that’s still from climbing the stairs, or if it’s new, Tommy doesn’t know. 

“Because I think about you,” Tommy continues, fully committed to his course of action. After what feels like so long keeping quiet about this attraction, it feels good to say it out loud. And if it’ll encourage Alfie to respond with words of his own, all the better for it. “Ever since we first met, I’d think of you. Not all the time, but I would. How could I not? You made me curious what it’d feel like. What it’d taste like on my tongue.” He punctuates this by tonguing at the head of Alfie’s dick in a more substantial way this time, lapping at what flavour he can find. He tastes like skin and salt, bitter and tangy in equal measures, like sex, like blood. Tommy explores with tongue, tracing at the place where skin would have folded over, had he been unaltered. Alfie jerks in response to that, sensitive and starting to shake. 

“What else do you think about?” Alfie asks, and it’s in a voice that Tommy’s never heard from the man before, a bit soft, but still with his accompanying growl. It sounds intimate, how Tommy might have imagined the man talking to a lover, different from how he’d sounded when speaking to that boy at the party. 

Tommy mulls it over for a moment, deciding on if he should push for Alfie to speak more. He ultimately decides he’ll speak— they’ve got the whole night to get it out of him. He speaks between passes up the man’s cock, focusing more on the length of him now, rather than the head. “I think about what you’d feel like on top of me, pressing me into the sheets. I think about your hands. I think about your hands quite a lot.”

“My hands?” Alfie reaches one ring-clad hand down, still bracing the wall with the other. He runs his fingers through Tommy’s meticulously combed hair, over the shell of his ear, into the hollow of his temple. Tommy’s eyelids flutter at the touch, but he doesn’t let himself melt into it, not yet. “What about my hands?”

Tommy pauses the ministrations of his tongue, pulls back slightly so he can peer upwards, looking at Alfie directly. “I hold a great deal of admiration towards your hands, Mr. Solomons. I think about them in a lot of different ways. In my hair, on my hips, around my throat. Inside of me.”

Alfie’s eyes are wide, blown black. His hand goes back into Tommy’s hair, taking a handful and gripping tight. “Inside of you?”

Tommy nods, maintaining eye contact. He’s working himself up almost as quickly as he’s working up Alfie. “Yes, especially then. I try and use me own fingers, and pretend that they’re yours. It’s never good enough, but I keep trying.”

“Tommy, you can’t just— fuck!” Alfie swears, breaking off as Tommy leans back in, swirling his tongue around Alfie’s balls. It’s a new, interesting angle for Tommy, nestling his face in so close to Alfie’s body, lips wrapped around something unfamiliar as he gently takes one, then the other in his mouth. He feels almost lightheaded as he does so, overwhelmed by his own actions, driving himself unstoppably forward and making himself unrecognizable to himself. He’d imagined having sex with Alfie, imagined having him, but he hadn’t truly anticipated his enthusiasm for it. Hadn’t imagined kneeling down at the man’s feet, hadn’t imagined himself lapping at the man’s balls so hungrily, so wanton, talking about the places he puts his own fingers. He fucking loves it. He wants to lay himself down and put himself on offer, to let Alfie do as he pleases, to let him take and take and take until there’s nothing left. He’s cracking apart, losing his composure, losing his teasing edge. He looks up at the man, eyes pleading in a way he can’t with words. Can’t Alfie see what he’s doing to him? Can’t he see why? Can’t he see what Tommy wants him to say, what he _needs_ him to say? 

With hands shaking from newly realized need, Tommy pulls off for the briefest of seconds, only to take his cock fully in his mouth. Alfie groans again above him, hand still tight in Tommy’s hair as Tommy sucks him down with his breathless fervour. Alfie’s cock is big and heavy in his mouth, silky soft and smooth with Tommy’s saliva as he tries to learn how to do this well, how to bob up and down without choking himself, without catching his teeth. Tommy’s sucked men off before, taken them down his throat while hidden in dark corners during the war— something to survive the cold nights— but it’s been years since then, and he barely remembers how. He’s determined to take Alfie as far in as he used to take men, cocks buried deep as the muscles in his throat worked around them, but he’s too out of practice. His face turns red as he tries, nonetheless, pulling off to cough and moan, only to push his face back down Alfie’s length over and over. 

“Look at you,” Alfie breathes above him, and Tommy thinks that he might sound a bit worshipful. The hand in his hair slides down his face, drawing shapes with soft fingertips against his jaw, his cheekbone. “Hell-bent on ruining yourself on me. So fucking lovely.”

Tommy looks up at him, eyes wide, still pleading. It’s gone completely off the rails, cool composure obliterated. He hates himself for it, hates that he feels so small and so desperate for Alfie’s words, hates that what the man says and thinks matters to him so much. He sinks further onto the length in his mouth, taking it as deep as he can, white knuckling through the gag reflex that is insisting he give up. _Say it,_ he thinks as his face goes red, _say you’ve thought about me, say you want me, say all the things we’ve never said, say it and I’ll do anything. Please say you want me._

“Tommy, that’s— That’s enough.” Alfie withdraws, tugging his cock out of Tommy’s mouth, holding Tommy’s face back as he chases after it. Tommy fights it, feels like something important and vital is being taken from him, and he crawls forward on his knees, fingers grasping at Alfie’s hips as he backs off. “Tommy? What the fuck you think you’re—?”

They’re in the centre of the hallway now as Tommy claws at the man’s thighs, trying to get his mouth back on his cock, with frantic, shaking hands. Alfie folds himself over, sinking to his own knees with a pained wince, but he looks more concerned with Tommy’s suddenly feral behaviour. As Alfie lowers himself, he grabs hold of Tommy’s wrists, still scrabbling uselessly against the man, and uses them to tug Tommy in close. Tommy sucks in a shocked breath as he’s moved, forcibly, Alfie’s cock still jutting out between their bodies. “What’s going on with you?” Alfie hisses, and Tommy can’t look him in the face, not now, not after how he’s shown his hand, shown how much he wants this. He looks down between their bodies, looks over Alfie’s shoulder, behind him, looks up at the ceiling.

Alfie readjusts his grip, so that he’s holding both of Tommy’s wrists in one of his hands. With the other, he reaches forward and takes a firm grip on Tommy’s jaw, forcing him to look at him. Alfie’s eyebrows are furrowed, confused, mouth hanging open behind his scruffy beard. His fingers on Tommy’s jaw are tight, and he can’t worm his way out of it, no matter how much he twists and pulls. He feels like a wild horse, eyes rolling wildly as he attempts his escape, but he’s thwarted by Alfie’s raw strength. Finally accepting that he’s no choice but to face this, he lets himself focus on Alfie.

“Ease up there, soldier. Ease up.” Alfie murmurs, looking less concerned now that Tommy’s settling into it. “Just wanted you off before _I_ went off, in what I would consider an embarrassingly short amount of time. Wasn’t about to leave you here like that, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t think—” Tommy rasps, but cuts himself off when he hears what his voice sounds like, creaky and broken. He also has no explanation for how he’d reacted, just knows he feels hot under his layers, and desperate to get his hands back on Alfie. 

Alfie’s lips curl up. “Right, you didn’t think. That’s got to be a first for you, eh? Can’t stop the wheels in that head of yours from turning, from careening from murderous thought to villainous intention. Find that endlessly charming, myself, how that brain of yours never fucking stops.”

Tommy blinks slowly at him, shuffling awkwardly forward on his knees. It’s almost what he wants to hear, and Alfie must know it, must know what Tommy’s after and is dangling it in front of his eyes. He waits. 

“Nothing to say?” Alfie’s eyes flicker down to where Tommy’s creeping closer, still smirking. “That’s all fine by me, petal. Suppose I’ll put those lips back to proper use.” Alfie leans forward, holding Tommy’s face steady as he draws him into a kiss. It’s— nice. It’s a nice kiss. It’s the sweet first kiss that the boy next door breathes onto your lips after he’s brought you flowers, chaste and soft. Tommy freezes, surprised by it, had expected something rougher, more claiming. He opens his eyes, from where they had shut automatically, and he’s looking directly into Alfie’s open eyes. They twinkle, teasing with mischief and mirth, and it somehow erases the sense of shame that had been climbing up Tommy’s spine at his loss of control. His eyes say, _I see you, I hear you, I know what you’ve meant, and I mean it too. Isn’t this better?_ Tommy rebels against the grip on his jaw, pushing into the kiss deeper, smiling slightly as he shuts his eyes again. 

They kiss, and now it’s more like Tommy had imagined. Alfie’s lips are always hidden by his beard, and Tommy had almost forgotten how plush they are— how decadent, generous, easy to sink into. The beard scrapes at his chin as they tilt their heads in opposite directions, moving with unpracticed synchronicity. Tommy never thinks about kissing, is a man who prefers to skip to the end, but kneeling here, knees protesting against the hardwood floor, he’s reminded of how nice kissing can be. The slide of Alfie’s lips against his as the older man charges forward, slipping his tongue into Tommy’s mouth, coaxes soft, satisfied little noises out of the back of Tommy’s throat. Alfie’s grip has lessened, distracted, and Tommy uses it to his advantage in a sudden flurry of movement, shoving Alfie backwards until he loses his precarious balance and tumbles onto his back with a noisy grunt of pain. 

“Oof,” Alfie blinks up at him, looking shocked at his sudden change of position, but Tommy doesn’t give him any time to recover, scampers forward and straddles him, sealing their lips once more as quickly as he can manage. Alfie’s cock is still out, and is now poking between Tommy thighs, and Tommy can’t help himself from grinding his hips down, just enough to make Alfie groan beneath him. 

“Come on,” Tommy grits out, pulling back from their kiss with a flash of teeth and red lips, reaches his hand between their bodies, removing himself from his trousers. There’s too many layers to get properly undressed in the position they’re in, but with enough wriggling, Tommy’s able to withdraw his own cock, aching and hard, and drag it against Alfie’s. They both moan as their dicks touch, hot skin against hot skin, and Alfie’s still a bit wet from Tommy’s enthusiastic blowjob. “Come on, I want, we need to—”

“Right, c’mon then,” Alfie groans, hips moving on their own accord, grinding them against each other as Tommy wraps his fingers around them both. Tommy leans back so he’s sat upright, then spits onto their cocks.

“Christ,” Tommy huffs as he slicks them both up, nerves alight and screaming, his own hips twitching, humping forward. They’re both shaking and gasping, both of them mad over it, and he can’t even imagine the spectacle they’re making of themselves. The head of Alfie’s cock, whenever it comes poking out from beneath Tommy’s fingers, looks almost purple, angry, obviously about to come. Tommy speeds up the pace of his hips and his hand, trying to catch up. 

“Ah, fuckin’, Tommy—” Alfie grunts out, big hands reaching out to grip at both sides of Tommy’s hips, and it feels as if he could almost wrap his fingers around the span of his waist completely. Alfie’s thumbs dig into his hip bones, squeezing tight as the man loses any final semblance of control, manipulating Tommy’s pace and jerking his entire body up and down against the length of his cock. Tommy goes boneless, lets it happen, feeling more like a ragdoll as Alfie fucks into his hand, against his cock, into the cloth covered crease of his thighs. “You’re so—” 

Alfie’s face goes completely red as he gasps, jerks his hips once, twice, then comes. Tommy feels it against his hand, twisting his palm up to catch it, or at least try in vain to prevent it from making a total mess of his clothes. He waits, heart pounding in his throat, desperate to continue his shameless rutting, but he waits. 

With a shaking hand, Alfie finally releases his grip on his hips to wrap his fingers around Tommy’s fist. The man blinks slowly beneath him, chest heaving, and he looks up at Tommy with something like shock written on his face as he begins stroking the younger man to completion with Tommy’s own hand, slick with Alfie’s come. It doesn’t take long, doesn’t take much, with how close Tommy was to the edge. He glances down, and the image of his own cock poking out from within Alfie’s tattooed fist is what finishes him. His thighs squeeze tight around the thick trunk of Alfie’s body, clinging desperately to something solid as he tilts his chin up skyward as he adds to the mess on his fingers. He finishes with a bit of a flourish, an involuntary shuddering of his entire body as he gasps loudly in the quiet of the empty hallway, falling clumsily forward and held up only by his shaky left arm resting on Alfie’s broad chest. Alfie reaches forward, violent hands gentled by orgasm and affection, running up the sides of Tommy’s torso, around to rub soothingly down his shoulder blades, his spine. 

Tommy’s eyes are closed as he half lays, half kneels atop Alfie’s body, couldn’t bear to open them yet. He’s never been one to linger in the afterglow, his brain still steamrolling ahead regardless of how satisfying the orgasm may be. He can tell just by Alfie’s relative stillness beneath him that he’s not one to either— the hand continues stroking at Tommy’s back, but his breathing is measured and careful. Tommy takes just the briefest of seconds to take in their situation, to memorize the feeling of Alfie between his thighs, the slight huffing of breath as his chest expands and then deflates. Tommy’s face feels like it’s burning, both from the scratching of Alfie’s whiskers as they had kissed, and from the strangeness that is quickly descending over them both.

Tommy opens his eyes and pushes himself up. Alfie doesn’t let him escape fully, doesn’t let him withdraw, just lets him go far enough that they’re peering at each other with similar expressions of unease. They’ve known each other for years, can read the other like no one else, but they’ve never done this. They’ve never gone this far over the carefully drawn lines, lines that must have been drawn for a reason. Tommy had rushed headfirst into this, and he doesn’t regret it, exactly, but it’s hard not to feel uncertainty as they stare at the other, no words bubbling out from either of their throats. 

No words, but after a moment of gawking, Alfie releases a sharp bark of laughter. It startles Tommy, so physically close in proximity, and his reflexive jump just makes Alfie laugh again. His lips are twisted upwards, eyes crinkled and amused as he laughs, and Tommy can feel it in his whole body, the percussion vibrating through their ribcages. Tommy can’t help it— he smiles too. It’s not a funny situation, but it is. Alfie laughs, and Tommy laughs with him, thinking back at what he’d heard Alfie say even though he hadn’t opened his mouth, and he laughs. _I see you, I hear you, I know what you’ve meant, and I mean it too. Isn’t this better?_

*

“Got to say, mate. Thought it’d be bigger.”

Eventually, they had extracted themselves, tucking cocks in and buttoning up trousers. Alfie even had a handkerchief that he offered for Tommy’s come-covered hand, dabbing at the mess with exaggerated chivalry before tossing the fabric carelessly over his shoulder. They’d left it there, sticking to the ground, and they’d gone off. 

Now here they stand, only a handful of minutes later, standing in front of the paintings they’d been hunting. They really had been well hidden— concealed within a veritable labyrinth of corridors, side doors, and staircases. They’d wandered together, hands brushing occasionally as they walked, talking about nothing at all in particular. They’d stumbled upon the paintings, in fact, Alfie guiding them through a long series of doors that he’d chosen because he’d “liked the look of ‘em,” and Tommy had followed after him while staring at the back of the man’s broad frame with as close to a look of open admiration as he was capable of. 

“Don’t have to be big. Just have to be worth the money.”

Alfie snorts, standing a few steps back from the paintings in question. His face is still pleasantly pink from their exertions, be it from the orgasm, or from their laughter immediately following. Tommy’s up a bit closer, examining the paintings with a more critical eye.

They’re exactly as he’d been told they’d be, by the maid, and by his source into the art world. A series of abstract paintings, six in total, each one more incomprehensible than the last. And Alfie’s not wrong about the size of them— the canvases are thick, but they’re barely the size of a grown man’s hand. Tommy doesn’t have an eye for art, has never looked at a painting or a sculpture and been _moved_ , and these are no exception. They’re portraits, and you can sort of tell, though most of them are only vaguely recognizable blobs of paint, thickly textured, painted with a heavy hand. He stares at them long enough to ascertain that they are the paintings they’ve been looking for, then turns back to look at the room they’re in. It really had taken them ages to find this room, a sort of study, though it’s obvious that it isn’t used often. There’s a fine layer of dust covering every surface of the room, in stark contrast to the sterile state of cleanliness on the lower floors. Most of the furniture is covered in fabric, to prevent the dust from seeping in, and the room is chilly, warmth from below not reaching all the way over here. 

Tommy glances over at Alfie, who has leaned himself against a nearby wall. He’s staring at the painting closest to him, a straight-lined face with orangey brown skin and heavy lidded eyes. Tommy steps closer, craving the heat from the man’s body in the cold room. “Ugly, isn’t it?”

“Nah,” Alfie looks away from the painting, towards the approaching man, but only for a quick moment before he’s looking back at the painting, a considering look on his face. “Quite like this one. Sort of pretty.”

Tommy looks at it again, frowning. He can’t say he agrees. The eyes are nice, blue and thick lashed, but the rest of the painting is too surreal, too strange for him to see any beauty in it. 

Alfie shrugs, which Tommy sees out of the corner of his eye, and sets into motion, setting the suitcase down on the nearest fabric covered table, clicking it open. “How much did you say these splotches of paint are going for, again? Maybe I’ll even keep this one, taken as I am.”

“Didn’t say,” Tommy smirks, approaching one of the other paintings, a mess of reds and purples. “You didn’t ask. They’ll be worth more as a set.”

Alfie huffs out a breath of laughter, catching Tommy’s smugness at the man not even fully inquiring as to what they’d been meant to collect that night. Alfie’d simply gone along with it. “Yeah, but what if I fucking want it, mate? I am loathe to give up beautiful things. Find the idea quite abhorrent, in fact.”

Tommy sucks in a breath at that, but does not turn to respond. He idly touches the frame of the painting, running his fingers down the smooth wood. They’ll have to remove the frames, but they should be able to fit all 6 in the briefcase, especially since they’re so much smaller than he’d anticipated. “Alfie,” he replies, after a moment passes, still not turning. He tries to keep his voice casual, but it sounds oddly delicate to his own ears. He’s sure Alfie notices. “God help the man who stands between you and something you want.”

He hears Alfie take a halting step forward, but then stop. “Especially something beautiful, yeah? Once I get my hands on something that catches my eye, you’ll never be able to pry me off.”

Tommy very nearly flushes, but manages to control the reaction by tilting his head to the side, lips quirking up in a sly smile. Alfie takes another step closer, encouraged by his reaction. Tommy can feel his breath on the back of his neck. Finally, he looks back at him. Alfie’s all bulk and warmth and coiled rage and violence, and his eyes are soft as he looks at Tommy. “You can keep the painting,” Tommy glances over Alfie’s shoulder at the painting in question, stares into its blue eyes, then looks back at the man. “Consider it a gift. Hopefully you’ll still like it, even though it’s from someone who’s not your type.”

Alfie blinks once, twice, then smiles. “Ah,” he shifts on his feet, scratching at the back of his neck, playing at remorse even when his grin says he feels none. “Heard about that, did you?”

“Too old too,” Tommy continues, twisting his entire body now to face his friend head on. “And arrogant.”

“Well, that last one’s just stating facts, innit?”

“I’ve been told I’m quite humble, actually. Think it was by Winston Churchill—” 

Alfie rolls his eyes, rather dramatically, before he shuts Tommy up by pressing their lips together. Tommy sighs into it, bringing hands up to rest on shoulders as Alfie tugs him in by his hips. Alfie’s so hot against him, face so scratchy, body so solid, and Tommy thinks he’d like to do this forever, wants to kiss and be kissed, firmly, and quite often. Tommy’s not a man who basks in afterglow, not a man who enjoys the build up, the kissing, the foreplay, but right now, he thinks he might be— thinks that he’s another person entirely when he’s encased by strong arms and a bushy face.

“Right,” Alfie pulls away, and his lips, still wine-stained, still plump and glorious, are glistening with saliva. With his right hand, he fumbles for the wall, gesturing back towards the paintings. “Why don’t we wrap this up, yeah? Get the fuck out of this place, ‘fore we push our luck.”

“Right,” Tommy parrots, feeling a bit breathless, but he thinks he hides it well. A smooth, blank face is what he’s best at, after all. 

“And then after that,” Alfie shrugs his shoulders, face scrunching up as if he’s coming up with a plan, something brilliant and entirely made up on the spot. “You’ll come back to mine. You’ve never been there, but I’ve got a nice townhouse, right, all the way back in London—”

“We’re still pretty much in London.”

“Back in London, where there’s good, god-fearing folk, nothing like the heathen writhing around downstairs—”

“Heathens? You should have told me earlier, we could’ve left.”

“And _maybe_!” Alfie puts emphasis on the word, face curling up in amusement as he places a firm hand over Tommy’s mouth to keep him quiet. “You can help me find a suitable location to put my brand new painting. Think it might look lovely right over the mantel, right, but we cannot discount the wall inside my bedroom.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows imperiously when Alfie’s finished speaking, waiting for the man to let go of his mouth. Alfie does, but his hand does not go far, grazing against the bones of his face. Tommy looks at him, face blank and serious. “And maybe, after that, we can fuck.”

Alfie shakes his head in disbelief at Tommy’s bluntness, still grinning. “Well! An interesting proposal, yeah, one in which I’ll need to put a lot of thought into, you understand.”

“Of course,” Tommy nods, then tilts his head to chase after Alfie’s fingers on his face, nipping at whatever he can reach. “I understand completely. Take as much time as you need.”

The man doesn’t seem to be putting much thought into it, seems more distracted by Tommy’s lips, pressing against the tips of his fingertips. Alfie slides his fingers closer, slipping his middle right inside the wet warmth of Tommy’s mouth. Tommy keeps eye contact as he sucks at the finger gently, just enough that his cheeks go concave, just enough to slide his tongue over skin and nail. “Hm, right.” Alfie’s eyes are dark, focused in that very intense way that he gets. “Tom, I’ve made my decision. I will magnanimously grant your request for a good dicking. Honest, think you’ve needed one for a good long while. I’ll do this as your friend and closest ally.”

“My hero,” Tommy pulls his head back with a slick _pop_ of Alfie’s finger, and he withdraws himself from Alfie’s arms all at once. Alfie looks put out by this, sidling closer, unconsciously making grabbing motions with his fingers, but Tommy’s not to be dissuaded from his current plan of action. They’ll collect their paintings, and they’ll leave. Adam, still waiting downstairs, will drive them back to Alfie’s townhouse in London, and they’ll argue and they’ll bicker about the perfect place to hang Alfie’s new painting. Tommy will take it entirely too seriously, and Alfie will whine and moan as he trails after Tommy though his house, complaining about interior design being only an excuse to lure Tommy back to his house and that now that he was here and sufficiently lured, they could just toss the painting and get to fucking.

Tommy will laugh, and he’ll slide out from under Alfie’s hands, and then he’ll examine all of the walls in Alfie’s house with an exaggerated frown, making quiet comments under his breath about the lighting and the air quality. Finally, Alfie will snatch the painting out of Tommy’s hands, and he’ll march him up towards his bedroom, to where a great big landscape of a cheery little English beach hangs. He’ll rip the painting off the wall, throw it against the opposite wall (with a small explosion of glass and broken frame), and he’ll hang up the new one. He’ll gesture and he’ll point, and he’ll crow that it is the perfect spot for this particular painting, and then he’ll shove Tommy onto his back and he’ll crawl between Tommy’s legs, and Tommy will let him. 

And then they’ll fuck. And neither of them will be too old or too arrogant or not the other’s type. Not that Tommy was even thinking about it, or anything.

*

Tommy wakes up the next morning, pale dawn light creeping in through Alfie’s drawn curtains. The drapery, like so many things in the strange man’s house, is ugly as sin; a fringed royal purple that appears more lump than curtain. It clashes rather horribly with a tapestry that’s been thrown across the opposite wall, which is a combination of puke green and pumpkin orange. Tommy had fallen asleep the night before staring at it— he had considered an elaborate plan to destroy the great ugly thing, a plan that included deceit, trickery, and a firing squad, but now he just thinks he’ll toss it in the fireplace.

Alfie lays at his left, snoring spectacularly. He’d insisted on sleeping on the side of the bed closest to the door, had needed to rearrange their fucked out bodies in the dark. He’d mumbled something about protecting Tommy from intruders, which Tommy had laughed out loud about. As if Tommy needed protection from all the prowlers who broke into Alfie Solomons’ house.

The man looks different in the morning, Tommy notes, twisting onto his side so that he can stare at the man proper. His body complains as he turns, with a soreness between his legs that he’s not entirely used to. If he drifted a hand down, he’d be able to feel his angry, puffy hole, still just a bit slick. But he doesn’t, because he’s laying here, and he’s watching Alfie, who looks different in the morning. He’s less guarded, more loose. His face, slack with sleep, looks pale in the faint light, lips pink and lovely and utterly kissable. He looks younger than his years like this, looks less burdened by their violent lives, unaware of the consequences of their actions while drifting through his dreams. Tommy reaches out, gently, and rests a hand on the man’s barrel chest as he watches his eyes flicker behind his eyelids. He’s got a nice layer of chest hair, tickling at Tommy’s wrist as he strokes his strong pectorals. There’s a hint of rash, creeping up around the back of Alfie’s neck, but Tommy doesn’t mind, not when he’s so broad, not when he’s so solid, not when he’s so handsome that Tommy’s sleepy brain struggles to make sense of the situation.

He doesn’t know how anyone could think that Alfie isn’t handsome. Sure, he’s wild looking, sure, he’s not got perfect skin, and sure, he might go out of his way to dress as poorly as possible. But none of those things matter. He’s so handsome it makes his head spin. How curious it is that this is still a new development for Tommy, having never even kissed the man until the night before. It already feels as if they’ve been doing this forever.

Alfie’s snoring quiets slightly, but doesn’t abate completely as Tommy continues stroking down his chest. It’s barely morning, just past the crack of dawn, but Tommy can’t help his exploration of the man’s body. He should let him sleep, but he wants to _feel_ , and he’s never been known for his selflessness, and so he does. He thumbs over a nipple, eyes fixed on the man’s face, looking for signs of him coming awake. When he doesn’t move, Tommy wiggles in closer, pressing his lips against strong chest muscles, kissing softly. He inhales, luxuriating in the musky scent of their fucking from the night before, and that unique smell of sleep. He wants to sink into it, wants to submerge himself in the smell, cock slowly rousing as he drags his hand down the man’s chest, down, down, following the silky trail of hair beneath his belly button. 

“Alfie,” Tommy murmurs, slipping out of his lips before he can stop himself. He’s sore, but right now, he’s _aching_ , aching to press himself down on the man’s thick cock, newly addicted now that it’s been offered. He grinds his hips against the bed beneath him, a frustrating drag of friction, and he scratches his fingers through the man’s wiry pubic hair. “Alfie, wake up.”

The man begins stirring just as Tommy wraps his fingers around the man’s soft cock, eyelashes fluttering as he wakes. He squints in the faint morning light, the arm nearest Tommy automatically snaking around his back, pulling him into an embrace. He’s so sleep-warmed and drowsy, and it makes something curl up inside of Tommy’s ribcage, something pleasant and tender that somehow doesn’t clash with his arousal. Tommy lets himself be tugged in closer, uses it as an excuse to trail his kisses into the crook of the man’s neck, tracing over where his beard starts. 

“Morning, petal.” Alfie says, in a voice creaky from sleep. He turns his head for just a handful of seconds, pressing an affectionate kiss onto the crown of Tommy’s head, nuzzling his face through his sleep-rumpled hair. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Tommy bites gently at the thin skin at his lover’s throat, just a nip, as he runs his palm up and down Alfie’s cock. He’s not stroking, not really, just enjoying the simple luxury of feeling skin against skin. “I think I’ve got my hand on your cock.”

Alfie chuckles, and he wipes at his eyes with the hand not around Tommy’s shoulder, pushing away the sleep at the inner corners. At a quick glance, colour is returning to the man’s cheeks and chest as he gradually comes more awake, and he starts to look more and more like himself. Good. Tommy likes him anyway he’ll let him have him, but he has a fondness for Alfie animated and full of life. “That you do, Tom. And a very nice hand you’ve got there, very soft, well-manicured. A hand to be proud of.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, and that’s just for himself, because his face is buried once again in the Alfie’s neck, couldn’t possibly be seen by the man above. He doesn’t say anything, just continues his slow, deliberate half-handjob.

“And you know what? This is a lovely way to wake up in the morning, I’ve got to say, a perfectly lovely way. A beautiful man with a hand on my cock. What’s not to like?” Alfie nudges his chin against Tommy’s head, pulling his attention up. When Tommy looks, he’s grinning down at him mischievously. “But you know, not to sound ungrateful, right, but I think there might possibly exist a different part of your anatomy that I might prefer ‘round me down there. A warm, wet part of your anatomy.”

Tommy can’t contain the lazy smile that erupts across his face, amused, despite himself. “And which end might that be?”

Alfie makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. He looks delighted. “Oh, I’ve a choice? Thought you’d be too sore for one of ‘em.”

“Why would I be?” Tommy replies airily, refusing to acknowledge the soreness in his arse. “Not like you’ve got much down there to get sore over.”

“Tommy, sweetie,” Alfie leans down, plants a fat, wet kiss on his forehead, eyelashes batting prettily. “One day, I’m going to choke you out.”

Tommy grins fully now, no longer able to tamp down the happiness that threatens to burst out of him with every word he says. He stops the ministrations of his hand, squeezing his balls tightly to make up for the smile. “Is that a threat, then? Because I’ll let you know, Mr. Solomons, that the Peaky Blinders do not take threats of bodily harm lightly, and if you’d like to—”

Tommy forgets the rest of his sentence as Alfie swings into motion, rolling their bodies around so that he’s hovering over Tommy, exquisitely heavy, pressing him down into the sheets. Tommy groans as the man pushes his body down onto him, hot groins slotting against each other. His mouth is in his ear, breathing down his neck. “Tommy, you are the most insufferable man that I have ever had the distinct displeasure to meet. I’m going to fuck you now.” Alfie nods at him, and Tommy can only nod back, agreeable for once.

Alfie reaches down, running a hand down the length of Tommy’s body so he can press his fingers tightly into the soft of Tommy’s knee, drawing it up and over his elbow. Tommy lets himself be spread, bared to the cold air, still slick, still used. “This is disgusting,” he says, not believing it for a second, but logically he knows it’s distasteful. Alfie’d cleaned him the night before with his tongue, and then after with a warm flannel, so he wasn’t leaking, wasn’t repellant, but they’re both covered in old sweat and barely mopped up come. Tommy’d normally not go anywhere near someone in this state, but he can’t ignore the sense of perverse pleasure he takes in their objective filth. His cock is hard against Alfie’s, starting to leak precome between them as Alfie grinds against him.

It feels slightly surreal, being there on his back in his business partner’s bedroom, the light peeking in through the window only just illuminating them. The sounds of London creep in despite the early hour, cars passing by, a dog barking madly in the distance. Tommy can hear it all, mixed with Alfie breathing heavily in his ear, working himself into a pant as they continue sliding against the other. Tommy had slept unusually well that night, fucked into exhaustion, and had been left undisturbed by his dreams. He’s sure that all the things that haunt him at night are still there, but it’s as if they’ve been left waiting on the other side of Alfie’s bedroom door. He’ll get back to them shortly, but for now, it’s bafflingly easy to put them out of his mind and just focus on the man on top of him. 

Alfie tucks Tommy’s knee against his side, patting it twice, communicating his desire to keep it in position as he releases it. Tommy listens easily, wrapping his ankle around and tucking it neatly into the small of the man’s back. Alfie reaches over towards his bedside table, pressing his chest, then his armpit into Tommy’s face with deliberate rudeness as he grabs the little bottle of slick he’d left there the night before. Tommy turns his head, but then bites at the meat just beside Alfie’s armpit, feeling tendon and bone beneath his teeth. Alfie makes a noise, then presses his body down even harder as he returns with the oil in hand, making Tommy groan as the weight settles even heavier down on him, feeling distinctly crushed. 

“Vicious little animal, aren’t you?” Alfie coos, not seeming put out about that fact at all. He ducks his head down, tracing teeth down the sensitive curve of Tommy’s neck, before biting down hard on his shoulder bone. Tommy hisses, Alfie not trying to be gentle, just shy of breaking skin, as he rocks down with a torturous grind of his hips. Tommy’s other leg, the one not around Alfie’s back, falls open of its own accord, limp and pleased. 

Alfie releases his shoulder, kissing it softly, an apology both of them know he doesn’t mean, before finally bracing himself up on his elbows, alleviating some of the weight off of Tommy. He shuffles down, pausing briefly to bite at one nipple, then the other, tongue soothing and exploring. His beard is scratchy against Tommy’s chest, who has always had somewhat sensitive skin, always so affected by the textures that rub against him. Tommy’s hips twist, trying to grind up against Alfie’s stomach, when he feels the man’s hand smoothing over the curve of his ass. 

“Oh,” Alfie mumbles, as his finger traces down the valley between his legs, feeling his swollen, fucked hole. Tommy jolts as the man rubs at it gently, a bead of precome leaking out of his cock as the man’s middle finger tugs at the rim. The hand retreats, Alfie leaning back on his knees for a moment as he unscrews the bottle of oil, then resumes his position. “What have we here?”

“‘S nothing,” Tommy hisses, as fingers, now wet, return to his hole. “Get on with it.”

Alfie exhales a quick breath, amused. “No, don’t think I will, actually. Think I’ll take my time here, as you’re so beautifully spread out on my bed.”

“I’ve got things to do today.” It’s not a lie, Tommy does have things to do. He has things to do every day of his life, and he doesn’t have time to spend all day in bed. He makes no attempt to move. 

Alfie ignores him anyway, humming a tune that Tommy doesn’t recognize under his breath as he slicks up the rim of Tommy’s hole. It’s slightly maddening, that tune, the idea that he’s slipping the tip of his index finger inside while humming casually, as if on his way to work, making Tommy want to writhe and shout for him to pay attention. It’s even more maddening that he doesn’t recognize where the song comes from.

Tommy tries to put it out of his head as the man’s finger slides deeper inside of him, moving almost effortlessly through rings of muscle, tracing the path that he’d already taken the night before. When one finger doesn’t prove to meet much resistance, Alfie’s pushing in another, rubbing gently, fingers wiggling in a way that makes Tommy’s toes curl. “Ah, Alfie,” Tommy pants, stretching hands above him, clenching the pillow beneath his head tightly. He can’t help the movement of his hips, circling them in an attempt for more sensation. It kind of hurts, what with his arse being put through what Alfie’d put him through the night before, but the ache feels good, the difference between pleasure and pain always having been blurred for him. “C’mon. Want you.”

“Oh, you want me, do you?” Alfie asks, voice a few decibels lower, eyes locked on Tommy’s flushing face. “And what if I want you like this, eh? Moving so prettily on my fingers, you are.”

Tommy sucks in a breath, finding it significantly harder to converse with the relentless prodding against his insides. “I’d move even better on your cock?” It comes out as more of a question than he’d intended, more a suggestion than an order. 

Alfie inhales, face screwing up thoughtfully. “We’ll find that out later, then, won't we?” 

Tommy makes a slightly petulant noise, but he settles himself back easily enough. It’s hard to dissuade Alfie of anything, once he gets it in his head, which is something that Tommy has learnt over their years of association. And it’s not as if it doesn’t feel incredible, Alfie fucking him slowly, clever fingers curling at exactly the right place, exactly the right time. His leg tightens around Alfie’s back as he slips in a third finger, filling him up so nicely, the steady stimulation making him go more and more brainless as he’s fucked. 

“You’re gorgeous like this, you know.” Alfie says, almost conversationally, if not for the deep rumble in his voice. “Like to keep you like this all day, gasping on my fingers. You’re wasting your fucking time doing anything else.”

Tommy manages a choked laugh at that, wiping at the sweat building up at his hairline. He makes eye contact with Alfie, still staring, but it’s hard to make his eyes focus properly on the man. “Wasting my time, am I? Pretty certain I’m doing a bit better than the Aerated Bread Company.”

Alfie’s hand stops. “Oi.” He leans back on his knees again, so he has the space to pinch sharply at Tommy’s hip, making the younger man let out a quick bark of laughter. “Just because I’m not out there, mucking about in bloody politics, rigging elections—”

“I’ve too much respect for the people of this beautiful country to ever rig—”

“—casting spells and making deals with people far more unsavoury than a humble baker like myself, does not give a silly little cunt like you any standing to throw such nasty accusations about the success of—”

“More unsavoury than you? Does such a person exist?”

Alfie sucks in a breath, shaking his head. “Alright, that’s enough of that, eh?” The man pulls his fingers out of Tommy all at once, gripping hard to his hips as he pulls the younger man down the bed towards him. Tommy snickers as he’s tugged, gloating in his little victory. “Going to wipe that smirk right off that lovely fucking face of yours.”

“You talk too much,” Tommy breathes, body jittering in anticipation as Alfie coats his hard cock in slick, then lines himself up. “And take too long. Is it your age catching up with you? Should I go find someone else who will—”

Tommy’s smirk is efficiently wiped off his face as Alfie shoves into him, all at once, knocking all the breath out of his chest. He grits his teeth as he’s impaled, entire body going momentarily tense before relaxing just as quickly. The rim of his hole burns with the intrusion, but inside he’s lighting up, nerve endings shouting and screaming at the pleasure that washes through him at just the knowledge that he’s finally got Alfie inside of him. 

“Oh good, thought you’d never stop.” Alfie does not look as composed as he sounds, face screwed up with pleasure as he settles in to the hilt. His cheeks are ruddy red, lovely, brows furrowed, and the muscles in his upper body appear to all be clenched. “Guess I’ve found the on-off switch, like a lamp. ‘S right inside your arse, mate.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy chants. “Shut the fuck up and just fuck me. Christ, why am I even here?”

“Fuck if I know!” Alfie says cheerily, but he obeys, dragging his hips back just to snap them back in. “My good looks, perhaps? Can’t be for my fucking business, ‘cos we all know how you feel about that—”

“Shut! The fuck! Up!”

Alfie bursts into laughter, but says nothing more, just crawls forward on his elbows and starts fucking Tommy with more enthusiasm. He’s really strong, is the thing, hips slapping against Tommy’s arse at an almost painful pace, the clapping of skin against skin ringing loudly in the air. He coaxes Tommy into little moans, slipping out from his lips involuntarily, breath hitching with the force in which he is pounded into. Just the sound of it is obscene, even the bed joining in as it creaks with their rhythm. 

“F-fuck, Alfie!” Tommy nearly shouts, as the man adjusts his angle and his next thrust hits the bundle of nerves inside of Tommy dead on. His hands scramble desperately forward, clutching at the man’s face, getting a good handful of beard and holding on tight. Alfie doubles his effort, focusing in on that one spot inside of him, slamming down on it with a quick, relentless fury. He’s got an entirely too smug look on his face, the thinking part of Tommy’s brain notices, but it’s out of his head almost as soon as the thought occurs to him. Alfie can look as smug as he fucking wants, as long as he keeps doing exactly what he’s doing, hitting inside him at just the right pace. 

“I’m gonna,” Tommy chokes, his cock sliding between their bellies with _just_ enough friction to get him off. He’s going to finish in between their bodies, and it’s going to happen soon. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Alfie stops thrusting, at almost the exact moment that Tommy was going to come. Tommy lets out an anguished noise that sounds embarrassingly close to a whine, and Alfie laughs again. “No, no, no, don’t think so, not yet, petal.”

Tommy glares at him, releasing his beard and attempts to reach down to grab at his cock, to finish himself off anyway. Alfie intercepts him, catching him by the wrists, pinning both of them together in just one of his hands. Tommy squirms and wriggles, but is unable to move all that much, what with Alfie still deep inside of him. He tugs at his wrists in Alfie’s hand, urgent with his need to come, and come as soon as possible. “Why?” He finally complains, going pliant.

“Well, it’s just simple fuckin’ manners, ‘aint it, Tom?” Alfie leans in closer, resting Tommy’s hands up above his head so he can hover over the younger man’s face. “You ever heard of ‘em? I know Birmingham is a rotting, festering wound of a city, but surely they’ve taught you please and thank you?”

Tommy scoffs, the angle feeling off, too pinched with Alfie’s face so close to his. His legs are bent at an unnatural angle to accommodate, hips aching. “You want me to beg you to let me come?”

Alfie smiles, something dark in it. “And then thank me.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, turning his face to the side, looking away from the man’s intense stare. “Well, that’s not about to—”

Alfie moves quickly, releasing Tommy’s hands from above his head, grabbing at his jaw instead. Before Tommy’s even fully sure what’s happening, Alfie’s wrenching open his jaw and spitting into his mouth as he resumes the violent pace of his hips. 

“Did you just—?” Tommy hisses, disgusted, but furiously turned on as he swallows the foreign saliva, his hands immediately gone back to clench at the man’s face. _He just spit in my fucking mouth_ , is the only thing he can think, clenching hard around the length pistoning inside of him. 

“I did,” Alfie grunts, “and you fucking liked it. Now say please, Tommy.”

“I’m not going to say please!” Tommy sneers at him, because he’s not going to, he can’t possibly. He’s too proud, too angry, too horny, his brain isn’t working properly. 

“Suit yourself, mate.” Alfie shrugs, and then he’s pulling out of Tommy, flipping him over onto his stomach. Tommy’s head spins with the change of angle, and he lets out a harsh cry as Alfie fucks back into him. He can’t think, can’t even fucking move as he’s pounded into, Alfie taking only enough care to make sure that his hips are boosted in the air, and that he’s not getting smothered by a pillow. Tommy’s delirious with it, with the wild pleasure blooming through his system, orgasm creeping back up again as the spot inside of him is pummeled repeatedly. 

“Ah, Alfie!” Tommy cries, arms numb underneath him, gritting his teeth through it. Alfie’s pace stutters for a second, as he reaches forward across Tommy’s back and wrenches at his hair, drawing his head up, exposing the line of his throat. 

“Have you something to say, sweetheart?” Alfie says, breath heaving, still fucking into him. Tommy tries ardently to shake his head, still saying no, still refusing, even though his body is screaming at him for relief. Alfie’s grip in his hair is tight, stinging, and it only pushes him further over the edge, desperate, half-feral. “No? That’s enough outta you, then.” He pushes Tommy’s face back down against the bed, turning it to the side. Tommy thinks it’s because he’s making sure he’s got room to breathe until Alfie pushes two thick fingers between his lips. He thrusts them into his mouth, fucking him with a steady pace on both ends. Tommy could bite, gagging on the intrusions as he is, he could put up a fight, but he’s crossed over a line inside of his own head, past the point of no return, past the point where he might’ve been able to pretend that he didn’t fucking love this. He lets himself moan louder now, sounds gargling out past the fingers in his mouth, uncaring about such trivial things like dignity.

He can hear Alfie chuckle above him, can feel him continue his heavy rhythm, might’ve been impressed with the man’s ability to keep up his pace on both ends if Tommy weren’t so bloody close to coming. The bigger man's breathing is getting more and more uneven, however, and Tommy can tell instinctively that he’s reaching the end of his endurance. He slows down, just a bit, just enough to drag his hips in a circle, reaching around so deep inside of him. 

Tommy chokes out another cry, and through the power of pure spite, he manages to wring his own orgasm out of the man’s cock inside of him, without saying please. It feels explosive, cock jerking almost painfully against his stomach, painting his chest and the sheets beneath him with his come. Tommy’s never come like this before, nor as hard. 

Alfie makes a noise as Tommy clenches around his cock, walls pulsing from orgasm. He pulls his fingers out of Tommy’s mouth, transferring them to the jutting bone at the top of his spine as he pushes him down and fucks him hard. Tommy only realizes now how much of Alfie’s pace had been set to bring the younger man to orgasm, as he pounds ruthlessly into him, no concern for Tommy’s comfort or pleasure, just his own. Before Tommy’s even finished coming down from his orgasm, Alfie’s reaching the crest of his, coming with a loud cry and a rough shove of Tommy’s neck. He seems to come forever, and Tommy’s already streaming hot from their fucking but he can still feel the heat inside of him as the man comes deeply inside. 

Alfie collapses all at once, with only enough presence of mind to do so slightly to the side. He pulls Tommy with him, still fused together, pulling his back against his sweaty chest. They both just lay there, motionless, regaining their breath as their heart rates return to a normal rhythm. Tommy blinks at the wall, trying to make sense of what just happened. Again, he’s not one to bask, but he doesn’t think that he could just get up right away and get on with his day if he tried. Maybe in a few minutes.

When the fog finally starts to recede from Tommy’s brain, he huffs in irritation. Alfie has positioned him to face directly at the ugly fucking tapestry hanging on the wall. Behind him, Alfie is drawing in long, satisfied breaths, but all Tommy can think of now is that tapestry. He wriggles against Alfie’s grip, who lets him go easily, limbs all limp and lazy. Alfie’s cock slips out of him as he twists, causing both men to hiss in reaction.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Alfie growls, voice deep and rumbling. He drags a hand down Tommy’s spine as the younger man sits up, face smooth and blank even as his hips and everything underneath them protest his movement. He sits on the edge of the bed, uncaring of the mess that’ll likely drip out of him as he bends and reaches his suit jacket, hanging off the foot of the bed. 

He retrieves his cigarette case, and happily lights one up before flopping onto his back. His head hits Alfie’s thigh as he inhales his smoke. He’ll just take a few moments here, then he’ll shower and be on his way. There’s business coming up, a meeting later that evening back in Birmingham that he really has to attend. Arthur had set it up, which means that Linda had probably set it up, something to do with his brother’s appointment as Chairman of the board. He’d very much like to continue laying here, in bed, but he’s already begun planning out his day, his route back to Birmingham, which tie he’ll pick when he gets back home. If he leaves now, he’ll have time to see Charlie and Ruby.

“Places to be,” he finally replies, exhaling his smoke towards the ceiling, as Alfie waves an exaggerated hand behind him to dispel it. 

“People to kill?” Alfie asks, an amused tone to his voice, bouncing his thigh with no intention other than to irritate. 

Tommy just shrugs. He doesn’t think so, but he’ll not try and jinx it. Doesn’t like needing to think about killing so soon after thinking about his children, but he knows Alfie doesn’t mean anything by it. He twists his head to look up at Alfie, who is still flushed and scruffy, and he’s looking down at Tommy with an inscrutable expression. Tommy inhales another drag, then blows it right in his face. “This was… nice. I’ll be back in London on Tuesday. I’ll come to the bakery after my meetings?”

“What if I’m busy, mate?” Alfie scoffs, eyes sharp, but lips twisting upwards. 

“Then you’ll have to make time.” Tommy answers airily, finally sliding his way out of bed. He ashes his cigarette in a nearby mug, despite the fact that it sits directly beside a rather regal looking ashtray. Alfie makes a pained noise, but he tugs the blankets back over himself, preparing to go back to sleep as he otherwise ignores his guest’s rude behaviour. Tommy efficiently gathers up his clothing, plans on dressing in the bathroom after he washes himself. With a small smile at the floor as he reaches the door, Tommy pauses for just a moment at the threshold. He turns his head back towards the bed. “Oh, and Alfie?”

Alfie grunts.

Tommy smirks at the man. “Thanks for the orgasm.” He’s able to dart his way quickly through the bedroom door, narrowly avoiding the hardcover book from the bedside table that Alfie hurls in his direction. 


	3. an epilogue

+

It’s three months later, and Tommy’s sat at his desk at Arrow House. He’d been in his office the entire morning, steadily working through the mountain of paperwork he’d had piling up. Most of it was nonsense, but it was nonsense sent to him by very important people, people who would insist on a written response to their occasionally nonsensical ramblings and requests. There’d been a letter from a man in his own party, who had been entirely unsubtle in his letter, asking for Tommy to “get rid” of a Tory who’d had sex with his wife. Tommy had it on very good authority that the man had also fucked his daughter, but it didn’t make it Tommy’s problem, did it?

There’s a curt rap on his door, Frances letting herself in, folding her hands neatly behind her back. “Mr. Shelby. There’s been a delivery here for you. A large crate, sir. Where would you like the men to bring it?”

Tommy squints at her, still absorbed in his papers, but his memory quickly catches up with him. “Oh, right. Just in here for now, eh Frances?” He gestures towards the wall opposite him, the empty space on the ground in front of one of the bookshelves.

Frances nods. “Right away, sir. And I’ll bring you a crowbar, as well.”

“Thank you, Frances.” The woman departs, and Tommy leans back in his chair, checking at his pocket watch. He’s been at this for hours, he can afford to take a break. He finishes up a cigarette as he waits, turning around to survey the grounds. He can spy Mary and Ruby, the toddler playing in the grass, bundled up tightly against the mid-October chill. He watches them as he waits for the delivery to be brought to him, sounds of shuffling feet approaching as he stares. 

When he finally turns from his daughter, it’s to see two men carrying a thin, but wide crate, arms straining with the effort. Lizzie trails after them, looking elegant as ever, cigarette dangling out of her slim fingers. She holds a crowbar in her other hand, looking entirely at ease with a weapon, and she passes it to Tommy as he crosses the room to direct the men as to where to set down the crate. They put it down, then quickly flee, the one in back chancing a quick glance at Lizzie as he goes. His name is David, Tommy knows, and he’s got sandy blonde hair and a generically handsome face, and he’s been sleeping with Lizzie for months. Lizzie gifts him with one of her demure smiles, and the lad is blushing as he ducks out of the room. 

Tommy clears his throat, dryly amused. “You done, then?”

Lizzie turns from where she’d been watching David’s arse disappear around the doorway. She raises her eyebrows, smile turning more wry as she looks at her husband. She nods at the crate. “What’ve you bought now?”

“Didn’t buy anything. It was a gift.” Tommy takes the crowbar to the top of the crate, prying it open as Lizzie settles back, leaning against the bookshelf nearby. She smokes her cigarette as she watches, a rather distracting presence as he removes the lid to reveal the canvas inside. He takes out the painting, leaning it back against the now empty crate. It’s the painting that the old man had made, offered to Tommy through a polite phone call, the man obviously a bit worried about Tommy being painted without his express permission. It was a reasonable fear, considering the subjects of the painting. It’s a lot larger than Tommy had remembered, back in that hazy dining room, and he’s no idea as to where he’s going to hang it.

Lizzie moves forward again, offering Tommy a drag from her cigarette as she takes the image in, an offering that Tommy accepts, gratefully. Her eyes are thoughtful as she stares, sliding over the smooth, glossy finish, the deep, saturated colours. Tommy tugs her in by the hips, taking comfort in the warmth she provides, in her steady, understanding gaze. “When was that?”

Tommy exhales his smoke up towards the ceiling, thumb stroking against the bone of her hip. “That first night.”

She nods, still pouring over the details. Her head tilts to the left, almost resting it on Tommy’s shoulder, but not quite. She doesn’t need the support. After a moment, she laughs, soft. “You look happy.”

Tommy follows her line of sight, looking down at his own face, painted in oil. It’s obviously him, no room for ambiguity, despite the background being more a swirling mass of half-recognizable shapes, furniture. He’s lounged across cushions, clean lines of his trousers and vest dark against the burgundy pillows. His eyes are an impossible blue, bleeding out in contrast to all the dark colours, and they’re aimed towards the man cradling him in his lap. 

It’s not entirely accurate. Tommy hadn’t been that close to Alfie, hadn’t been nestled in between his knees, head tipped back, mouth slightly parted. The painter had taken a few liberties, made him look more wanton, perhaps, made Alfie a bit broader, a bit more handsome. Their faces are all sharp angles, looking cruel and dangerous, but their eyes are locked on each other, not exactly adoring, not exactly hateful. It’s a gorgeous painting, but he doesn’t think he’d describe either of them as looking “happy”. 

Tommy looks back at Lizzie, a skeptical expression on his face. “I can bring it to Camden, if you’d like.”

Lizzie presses a soft kiss to his lips. “No, keep it here. Put it up in your room.” The room he shares with Alfie, she means, whenever the man comes to visit overnight. It’s all the way on the other side of the house as Lizzie’s, their shared bedroom somewhere in the middle. “I think he’ll like it.”

He smirks, a breath of laughter breezing out. “It’s a surprise. But I think he will too.” He releases his grip on her, stepping back forward towards the painting. “Alright, I’ll get it back in the box. You grab that man of yours to bring it upstairs. He’s got to earn his keep, somehow.”

“He earns his keep, don’t you worry about that.” With that, Lizzie departs, the smell of her cigarette and her perfume fading with her. Tommy places the painting back into the crate, careful to keep it from ripping. The men trail back in just as Tommy’s settling back into his desk, and he waits for them to lug it back out of his office before he picks up the phone. 

It only rings twice before Alfie’s familiar gruff voice is in his ear again. It’s almost too routine at this point. “Yeah, what?”

“Alfie.” Tommy smiles down at the desktop, eyes glazing over the important papers that he should be getting to.

“Tommy.” Alfie answers, and there’s the sound of wood creaking, like the man is stretching back in his chair.

“How would you like to come to dinner? I’ve something I’d like to show you.”

Alfie makes a politely interested noise in the back of his throat. “Think you’ve already shown me everything, petal.”

“You’re absolutely insufferable.” Tommy rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling, something resembling butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. God, how he loathes the man. “But I’ll show you that after.”

Alfie sucks in a deep breath, and even then, over the phone, Tommy knows that he’s smiling.

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP to canon tommy/lizzie relationship, esp in S5, but i'm different! in this au they're content as a family unit and they've both got boyfriends
> 
> and that's all, folks!!! hope you enjoyed reading, hope it wasn't weird!! i've seriously been writing this for months and it's become a whole Thing in my own head! 
> 
> i've actually went and got myself some ~art inspo~ for this fic! i'm absolutely NOT an art expert, and know very little about like, technique and theory, but i thought it was neat to have the paintings mentioned at least somewhat based on IRL works! the portrait in question, the one that alfie keeps is based on [this](https://pixels.com/featured/blue-eyed-man-edgeworth-dotblog.html), and it's the only one i truly rec for you to look at. other than that, i was inspired by these: [x](https://fineartamerica.com/featured/odalisque-with-a-lute-hippolyte-berteaux.html), [x](https://www.wikiart.org/en/auguste-toulmouche/sweet-doing-nothing-1877), and [x](https://fineartamerica.com/featured/-girl-in-a-white-dress-resting-on-a-sofa-alfred-emile-stevens.html). i was looking for a lounging, dark haired beaut, for the painting @ the end, and this was the best i could do! if you are an Art Expert and another painting comes to mind, please tell me, i'd LOVE to hear!!! :~)
> 
> i'm [tsolomons](https://tsolomons.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you'd like to hang there, it's a disaster there but i crave interaction <3 again THANK YOU FOR READING!!!


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